Recovering
by stilinskiandson
Summary: Set after the events of Season 3B, this is the story of how Stiles starts to piece his life back together with the help of his friends, his family, and one strawberry blonde. Unashamedly Stydia with Stilinski family/Sciles moments thrown in as well.
1. Chapter 1

It takes a while before Stiles can really talk to his father again. It's only to be expected. Or at least that's what he keeps telling himself every time he makes an excuse to hide in his room, to leave the table, to get out of the house. And it is only to be expected- he was a possessed evil spirit who tricked and destroyed so many people. _No Stiles you weren't a possessed evil spirit, your body was taken over by one_. That's what Lydia keeps saying to him, every time she finds him counting his fingers in the library, looking frantically at the nearest book to check it still makes sense. It's a little distinction, but an important one. Apparently. All it means to Stiles is that he wasn't strong enough to keep his own body under control. Go figure, when you only had to walk your fingers five steps across his body to find some form of scarring from some stupid accident he got himself into.

But after a while of silence and escaping and pretending to be completely fine, it becomes too much for Stiles. He has his friends and they are brilliant, fantastic, understanding and all the other words he keeps murmuring to them every time they bring him out of a panic attack. But they're not his father. Not the man who has been trained to hear Stiles' nightmares before his son is even awake, the man who spent all those hours telling Stiles what each code on the police radio meant just to make his son a little happier.

Stiles needs to talk to his father.

He drives to the police station (ten fingers on the wheel, check; nothing in the rear view mirror, check; signs readable, check). Tries not to look at the empty spaces cropping up all over his second home. _We're going to kill them all, Stiles._ Well, he did a pretty good job. _Not you, Stiles- you did nothing._ His conscience has taken on the voice of Lydia these past few weeks. It makes a nice change from the twisted growl of a nogitsune, but doesn't mean it always makes him feel better.

His father is sat at the Sheriff's desk, deeply engaged in his work. Stiles knows this because he has one hand pressed to the back of his head and one pen tapping against the side of the desk every few seconds. Whenever he is asked where he gets his pen-tapping habits from, Stiles always points to his father. In truth it probably comes from the maladjustments going on inside his head but he prefers to think of it as a family trait rather than a biological mess-up. He knocks gently against the door (the wood is worn away at different points up as his knocking knuckles have got higher, fact). The Sheriff takes a moment to look up which shows just how long it has been since Stiles has visited, because usually he would recognise that clumsy knock of his son instantly.

He looks up after a moment, though. "What is…?" he begins, but then trails away when he sees who it is. He puts his pen down, leaning back in his chair with eyebrows shooting upwards into his significantly more wrinkled forehead. "Stiles? You okay?"

There, again. The sign that times have changed. Stiles has been wandering into this office since he could walk (and before that, fingers clenched round his mother's steady hands, his father coaxing him onwards while various deputies cheered on their toddler mascot). Stiles has come to this office for no reason more times than he has because he needs something. But not anymore. Stiles is getting tired of people asking if he's okay and it makes him even more frustrated that he can't blame them for it.

"Yeah, Dad- I'm fine." The words slip out automatically. It's his standard response at the moment, even if he knows nobody believes him. He keeps shaking, keeps counting his fingers, keeps waking up in the middle of the night with the image of his friends' blood all over his hands- of course nobody bloody believes him.

He sits down in the chair opposite, trying to find solace in the fact that it stills seems to be moulded around his shape. And for a moment, he feels like he's sitting beside countless versions of himself. Five year old Stiles who sits on his knees, then sits on the top of the chair, then clambers on the desk, then tries to sit on his father's shoulders. Eight year old Stiles who can't stop throwing lacrosse balls up into the air and catching them again (half the time, as can be seen by the chipped edges to most of the Sheriff's photo frames that litter his desk). Twelve year old Stiles who takes on the habit of curling up his legs onto the cushion, as if he can escape the world by not touching the floor, who wears the empty space of his mother with care because he doesn't yet know what to do with it.

Stiles wonders what those versions of himself would think of the chipped and cracked person he is now. They would probably nudge Scott and whisper something snarky that would bring his friend to tears of laughter. Stiles hasn't made Scott cry with laughter for a long time now. He's made him cry, yes, but for entirely different reasons. _It wasn't you that made him cry, you didn't kill Allison. _

"Buddy, you still there?"

With a jolt, Stiles realises that he has sat down at the desk and not said anything. For how long, he's not sure. If he's honest, he keeps forgetting to keep track of time. His father is sat across from him, pen poised above whatever it he's doing. The question is asked with a light concern, but it has an edge to it. Like buddy, are you still there or has that sly old fox returned? Stiles knows that there is no demon left in his head, but that doesn't necessarily encourage him. If there's no demon, why does he still feel out of control? _It's to be expected, Stiles- you saw your own hands take ahold of a blade and push it further into your best friend. _

"Shut up, Lydia," Stiles whispers this under his breath, barely audible. But his father hears and lets out a gentle chuckle, rocking back in his chair.

"Your mum doesn't leave me alone either."

Stiles' eyes shoot up from where they've been determinedly fixed on the ground. On the faint scuff marks his trainers have been making since his legs were long enough to touch the floor. "I-" he begins, but his Dad raises his hand to bring him to a halt.

"Stiles, let's just agree that you hearing Lydia's voice occasionally is not the biggest of your problems. Now, are you here for a reason or did you just come to watch me file?"

This was perhaps the biggest difference between Stiles and his father. Stiles could walk miles around the point he was trying to make, but his father went as the crow flies. To be honest, it drives Stiles mad but only because he knows it gets results (and that he knows his father knows this too, the crafty bastard).

"I just, well…It's been a while since I came to the station…wanted to see how things were going…" It's a pathetic mumble and they both know it. His father watches him for a moment, that typical look of disbelief on his face. Like a disbelief that he's managed to have a son who is so off the edge.

"You don't know why you came, do you?"

"Nope."

"Not a damn clue."

"Not one." Stiles has to laugh after a second, shaking his head as his father watches him with that other typical look he sometimes receives. That look of utmost pride that makes Stiles feel like he isn't doing enough to deserve it.

"Kid, you're doing alright…You know that right?"

It's only taken a moment for things to shift, and suddenly Stiles is counting his fingers again. Ten, safe. Check the poster behind his dad, read each word. Safe. "Am I?" His eyes flicker back to his father now and there's a desperation there. Stiles remembers when he went onto medication for the first time, and his father found him trying to throw all the bottles away. He told him he was doing alright then too. And Stiles shouldn't need to be reminded of that because he knows deep down that he's right. His father is completely correct. He should be constantly bed-bound, unable to communicate with anyone, unable to sleep at all. But he's not. He's even gone to school for a few days. But it's not enough. He wants to feel safe, he wants to wake up in the morning with a worry that doesn't involve death or heartbreak or general destruction. He wants to stop seeing blood on his hands.

His father is silent for a moment and Stiles knows that this is him chewing through the problem. The case of the broken-down son, that's what it would say on his file. Probably. At least he doesn't start stringing up links on the board behind him. "Yes, you are…Stiles, you've been through more than most people go through in their entire lives. And you're still here, still fidgeting in the same chair your mother sat in when she went into labour." There's a crack in his voice there, a tiny fracture line. But they are both far too used to that to need to pause and comment upon it. The break just gets left behind in the dust of the conversation. "You need to give yourself a break- hey, you need to give yourself a medal."

"A medal? Dad- Allison is _dead_."

His father winces, then pulls himself up onto his feet. "Lydia isn't. Neither is Scott, or that new one, the one with the…y'know," he gestures a vague shape of a sword and Stiles sighs at his father.

"Kira?"

The Sheriff points a confirming finger in his direction, a proud smile on his face. Like 'hey son, I'm still keeping up with your crazy friends, aren't I impressive?'. When Stiles doesn't react to his attempt at humour, he is forced to try something else. He comes round the table to Stiles' side, and rests back against the wood with arms folded across his chest. "Remember that time you stole my keys?"

"Which time?" Stiles asks, and there's a whisper of a smile hiding in between the creases of his frown.

The Sheriff can't help but smile back, even though he has been trying to discourage such behaviour since his son knew how to unclip the keys from his belt buckle. "The time when you were twelve, with that girl who got robbed on the street round the corner from Scott's place."

Stiles bites his lip, and nods to show he remembers. But really, how could he forget? He hasn't actively thought about it in years, but the memory remains fresh like the daffodils growing atop Allison's grave. It was only a few months after his mother had died, the wound still red-raw, still tender to the touch. Still painful enough for his father to need to numb it away with a bottle of whisky. It was that period of the Sheriff's life which will make Agent McCall ask a hollow-eyed Stiles years later: _Is your father drinking again?_

That night, Stiles had been putting the latest empty bottle in the recycling, vaguely wondering why he took such care to drop it in carefully so as not to disturb his father, when his father's radio buzzed on the table. _211 on East Bridgeside, any available squad cars please assemble ASAP. A_dmittedly 12 year old Stiles thought a 211 was a lost child; his skills in decoding the police radio wasn't quite up to scratch yet. In fact he had confidently told Scott the day before that a 138 was a spotted UFO, when in actual fact it was drunk and disorderly (which is why a few months later Scott rushes out to the sky with his binoculars because his best friend tells him his father has gone to a 138).

Stiles had been fascinated in the job his father did since he had worked it out what 'police' meant. He had been in his father's car more times than not, even had his own little cubby hole in the station where the receptionist, Janet, let him store his homework. He knew exactly what he needed to do in that situation, from countless times of doing it in the past: ignore the radio because his father was in no fit state to help out and go to bed.

But he didn't. Of course he didn't. Stiles does what he thinks is best, like he always does. With deft fingers better suited to a thief (after all Stiles didn't learn purely from the good guys), he stole his father's car keys from his belt. And off he went to the garage. Of course he didn't get very far because he couldn't actually drive. The end of the road is how far he got, before the car skidded and hit another car parked. Fortunately he was barely at running speed, and nobody was hurt (except for Stiles' already battered pride). In fact, what hurt more was when he had to go home, wake his father and tell him where his squad car was, and face the look of utter despair, and hear the break in his voice: "Why the hell would you do that, Stiles?"

He remembers the incident, but he doesn't get why his father is bringing it up now. "I dented your car, you shouted at me when I told you…you sent me to Scott's for the weekend because you needed a break…What's your point?" He doesn't mean to sound so biting but he's tired and he wants his father to get to the part where he's meant to feel better.

The Sheriff nods his head towards the window of his office, where one can just make out the silhouette of that particular dented police car. "That dent is still there, and every time I look at it I can't help but smile. You know why? Because it reminds me that one night I was so out of it that my son decided he needed to do my job for me. It reminds me that my son has never once wanted to do anything but help." The Sheriff leans forward, places a hand on Stiles' shoulder. "Stiles, you deserve a medal because that demon only found you because you sacrificed yourself for me, just like you dented my car when you tried to help someone you didn't even know. You might be feeling dented right now but so is my car, and that hasn't let me down in all these years…you get what I'm saying, kiddo?"

His father squeezes his shoulder and Stiles knows his words are true, know they should be warming that cold pit in his stomach. But all he can think is that if had left that car alone, his father wouldn't have had to explain at work how the dent got there, admit that he had been in an alcohol-fuelled sleep while his twelve-year old son stole his car. It had all added to the pile of reasons why his father was constantly fighting to prove himself in his job, right? He knows his father is trying to help but it just brings back that feeling of guilt, the panicky sensation in his throat like he's about to throw up. _Even your father can't make this go away, Stiles. Little boy running to his daddy, pathetic. _Lydia's voice has twisted itself into the voice the nogitsune twisted from his own vocal chords. _Never trust a fox, Scott._ His hands start shaking then, as if he's fighting back against the urge to thrust an Oni's blade into the stomach of his father, just like he did to his best friend.

Stiles jumps up rapidly, almost sending the chair flying back. "I…I have to go." He doesn't wait for his father to try and stop him; he just runs from the office, from the police station. He keeps running and at some point he realises he is in the woods but then he just panics even more because if he's forgetting how he got here then maybe he isn't really free. The leaves break his fall as he crumbles to the ground, hands going to his temples and squeezing tight because he wants to push the darkness out of his head once and for all.

All it does though is make his eyesight prickle into fuzziness and make his head pound. He gives up, presses his forehead into the crinkling of the leaves. _What's happened to us Stiles?_ This time the voice is squeaky, full of optimism, full of up-and-downs because hyperactivity hasn't yet been stamped down by pill packets. And when Stiles looks up, he can see the five year old version of himself swinging a branch around his head. And Stiles realises that he hasn't run to a random point of the wood, but to the fallen tree that came down in a storm before he was even born. It's a spot that he came to with his parents when he was little. They would sit on the fallen tree and revel in their son finally having the space he needed to run. "Fly little bird_", _his mother would say, before ruffling his hair and sending him off into the wilderness. Years later, as Claudia lay in a hospital bed and showed Stiles the careful sewing she had been doing all day, he asked: "How did you just let me free in those woods? Weren't you scared of losing me?"

Claudia had placed a hand on his cheek, cupped his jawline and looked at him with an unusual amount of clarity for her condition then. "You always came back, Stiles. You just seemed to know where we were. You sniffed it out."

He's sniffed it out again, that's for sure. And that makes him feel a little better, makes him sit up from his crumpled position. He hasn't drifted to some random point to plot some horrible murder like his nogitsune shadow would have had him do. He has drifted to his mother, and that feels good.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out, looks at the Caller ID. Scott. He accepts the call, places it against his ear. "Scott?"

His best friend's voice sounds fuzzy but he knows that it's just the poor signal. "Where are you, Stiles? Your dad just called, said you took off…You okay?"

Stiles looks around at the trees, feels the breeze rustling at the leaves. He feels his heart slowing down to a steady thud and feels his ten fingers completely under his control. And then he feels a gentle tugging of a smile as he realises that his father was right. He's dented, scratched. But he's still got fuel in the tank and he's not ready to stop just yet. "Yeah, just needed some space. I know that sounds like my usual crap but it's actually true this time." Scott laughs on the other end of the line, and the relief is so thick that Stiles is surprised it can fit through the tiny holes of his phone's speakers.

"Want me to come get you?"

"Nah, I'm good. I'll be over later, you need help with that History work."

"I've done it already, Stiles."

Stiles grins, feeling himself returning in the form of his oh-so-mighty sarcasm muscle. "Yeah, and I turn into a mermaid every Monday."

"Nice image."

"I know. Don't lie to me again or I'll come round your house dressed as a mermaid, and climb into your bed while you're sleeping."

Scott groans, then hangs up, clearly satisfied that his friend is okay. He wouldn't be painting such strange scenarios in his mind otherwise. Indeed, Stiles gets to his feet with a steadiness that he hasn't felt in days. He knows this isn't a miracle moment of recovery for him, knows that tonight he will still be shivering under his covers. But it's a start.

And because it's a start and because he hasn't forgotten the way she gripped his shoulder tight, he doesn't go home just yet. He texts his father, apologises for running out and tells him not to worry. Then he walks across town, comes to her door, rings the bell. And perhaps Scott called her first, or perhaps Allison keeps an eye on them all and keeps them up to date, or perhaps she doesn't just sense the dead but the desperate. But when Lydia opens the door and sees him there, she doesn't look surprised at all. Not one bit.


	2. Chapter 2

For the first three minutes, Stiles just paces. Lydia has dragged him upstairs to her bedroom, shouted something to her parents about keeping out and shut the door, then sat down on the bed to let Stiles explain why he has turned up unannounced at her house.

Lydia is dressed in what Stiles would call her 'dressed-down' clothes. Lydia very rarely does dressing down; in fact Stiles has been partly convinced at times that Lydia does not even sleep in pyjamas but instead sleeps perfectly made-up and impeccably dressed, ready to start the next day. Not true of course. And it's not fair because Lydia being dressed in tiny flannel shorts and baggy sweater does nothing to help with his concentration and thus his ability to explain what he's doing there. Hair scraped back in a bun with perfect little wisps escaping around her forehead and- _stop Stiles, she's going to lose it soon if you don't start talking. _

He stops the pacing. Centre, slightly off if he's perfectly honest but it will do. Tugs at each finger on his left hand in turn, trying not to let his lips silently form the numbers he's mentally counting. She'll see it otherwise and think this is part of his new messed-up behaviour. It's not, honest. It's just something that keeps his heart from thudding so hard against his ribs that they start to bruise.

She's staring at him now, arms folded with one finger tapping against her skin. _One of her nails is chipped. Lydia doesn't have chipped nails. _This distracts him momentarily, like a frenetic magpie (something written on an early school report by an English teacher who liked to remind everybody that she could have been an author). He takes a step forward, and points to her nails. "Your nail polish, it's chipped," he says. Immediately he regrets it, as Lydia's eyebrows crease then rise in utter disbelief.

"You came here to give me manicure tips?" she asks in a voice sharper than the blade Stiles keeps pushing through his best friends in his nightmares.

"No, of course not. I just- well, you're nails are never chipped. Even when you were stuck in that warehouse, you came out with perfect nails…probably. I mean, I don't really remember checking but…" He trails off, swallows the lump in his throat as Lydia's gaze steps up its ferocity. Sits down beside her, tries not to show her how much he's sweating and trembling. The positive feeling of hope he had had in the forest is floating away now, drifting out of Lydia's open window. "What I mean is…How are you, Lydia?"

It's a loaded question. What he's really asking (and they both know it) is _how terribly sad are you Lydia because you always care about your nails, because you love to show the world that a manicure and a brain are not mutually exclusive. _Lydia looks at him with a certain amount of panic because everybody keeps asking her this but Stiles knows the little bite of her lip that she does when she's lying. And she knows that when she starts telling the truth about everything fluttering around her head, she won't be able to stop. "Please don't make me answer that," she finally whispers.

Stiles nods. He is sick of that question too, heck he doesn't even know why he asked it. Maybe because he has this sense that if Lydia was okay, he might be too. But he isn't that selfish, he isn't going to drag her into recovery just for his own sake. He drops it. He wants to start pacing again but knows that will just infuriate her, so he forces himself to sit as still as he can. For Stiles, that means one leg continues to jiggle up and down in time with his heartbeat. He doesn't know this but Lydia no longer finds this habit of his irritating; she found the nogitsune's stillness so terrifying that having her fidgeting Stiles back is a constant source of relief.

It doesn't stop her wondering why he's here, though. "Stiles, are you planning on giving me an explanation any time soon?"

"You knew I was going to come, I saw it in your eyes when you opened the door." He looks at her desperately, wanting with all his might for her to tell him why he's here.

Lydia presses a hand to her forehead, kneading away the persistent headache as much as she can. "Yeah…I heard you…" she murmurs, and for a moment Stiles forgets all his own concerns, temporarily fixated on what this means, what Lydia's powers are turning into.

"You…heard me? But I'm not dead or dying, as far as I know."

Lydia grits her teeth, then turns to face him directly with eyes blazing. "What does an MRI machine sound like?" she asks, and Stiles blinks, taken aback. Surely Lydia knows that already?

"Um…it's like a clanging sound, like a hammer hitting an anvil," he recalls the doctor's words, trying not to think about the claustrophobic tunnel where that demon had sneaked inside his head once again.

"And the nogitsune, it first began to take over after the power surge at the plant, right?" Stiles nods, mute for once as Lydia barrels on, gaining momentum now: "And when you got hit by Kira's power, what did it sound like?"

Stiles swallows, trying to think back to that night. It's blurry to say the least; a lot of things from around that time are. But then he remembers what Lydia had kept saying that day, eyes creased up against the noise in her head. "Like flies," he whispers finally.

Lydia nods, grimacing her satisfaction. "I don't just sense death, Stiles. I sense…" she pauses, and Stiles can see the shifting of her jumper as her breath catches in her throat.

"You sense me," he finishes for her, his eyes drifting across to rest on the opposite wall. He's not sure how he should feel about that. Stiles from two years ago is screaming somewhere at the back of his head. _How can you not be cheering and punching the air?! This is one giant step towards the ten year plan, you freaking idiot! _But Stiles right now is just terrified that every time he wakes up screaming in his bed, Lydia is doing the same.

"Well then, maybe you can tell me why I'm here," he finally says, sliding off the bed until he's sat on the floor, back resting against the bed with her legs inches away from his shoulders.

Lydia watches this movement with that quiet acceptance she often has for Stiles' behaviour. She used to think this kid was so weird, with limbs all over the place. But those thoughts are a distant haze now, as if somebody else thought them instead. She smiles, shaking her head in despair at his question. "I'm a banshee, not a damned guidance counsellor. If you don't know then there's no hope for anybody else."

He finds himself laughing at that, surprises himself at how natural it feels. Finally, after a moment of silence in which his teeth furiously pluck at his bottom lip, he presses one hand gently against her nearest foot. "I guess…I know Aiden's just died and I'm not wanting to fill that…well-toned and chiselled jaw space in your life but-"

"You don't need to," Lydia interrupts abruptly, and when Stiles looks up to her, he sees the wide-eyed surprise on her face that suggests she wasn't really expecting those words to come out of her mouth.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean…you already have your own space in my life."

"Oh." Stiles feels his cheeks reddening and he rubs at his nose in a frantic, ineffective attempt to stop them. "Is my space chiselled jaw and well-toned shaped?" he asks, a small grin creeping across his face.

Lydia laughs, shakes her head firmly. "Nope."

"What is it shaped like, then?"

"Like an idiot," Lydia replies almost immediately, and gives his head a light shove. But she's grinning and before he knows what's happening, she's slid down to sit on the floor beside him. He shoots her a lock of mock offense for good measure and she shrugs, her grinning becoming a little more awkward. "I don't know. It's too big to work out."

Those words sit quite nicely against his heart and he smiles, bumps his shoulder lightly against hers. "What I was trying to say is that I know things felt…different that night between us, I know we were pretty close and all but…well…I just wanted you to know that I don't expect anything from it. I'm grateful enough that you actually talk to me, that we're actually friends and I don't want you to think that you have to do anything for me because you needed me that night, I don't care. I just really want you to be okay and…" he trails off lamely, because he can feel himself teetering on the edge of rambling.

Lydia is staring intently at her hands, clearly trying to keep a whole hoard of emotions at bay. Then, all of a sudden, she clambers up onto her feet again. "Can we…can we get out of here?" she asks.

She looks desperate, so terribly desperate that Stiles agrees, even though he's enjoying the quiet security of being in Lydia's bedroom. She doesn't even take the time to get dressed properly, until Stiles gently reminds her that she's in tiny shorts and it's freezing outside. Even then, she just pulls on a pair of jeans and grabs a jumper. And when they get into his battered jeep, she has no idea where she wants to go. "Just drive, please," she says.

So he does. Tries to just drive without thinking too much about it, but also without going past anywhere that's got painful memories attached to it. Avoid Allison's house, avoid school, avoid the bowling alley- the list is getting too long for two people still in their teenaged years.

Suddenly, their out of town. On some road snaking up towards the woods with Beacon Hills sprawled out in front of them. Stiles stops, because his Jeep hasn't got that much fuel in it and he doesn't think Lydia wants to be stranded. Pulls over on the side of the road and switches off the car, listens to the wind rushing through the branches behind them.

"Is this…out of here enough for you?" he asks, turning to Lydia. She has been silent the entire time, forehead pressed against the side of the car and hands tangled together on her lap. But now she turns and gives him a small smile, then nods.

"Thanks," she whispers. "I haven't been outside in a few days…and I just…What you said…" She closes her eyes, shakes her head. "I know you're going through so much and I should be helping you but…I'm not okay, Stiles. I'm not. I'm not okay…" Her voice steps up a notch, becomes breathless with panic until suddenly her face crumples like paper and she drops her head into her hands to hide the tears suddenly racing down her cheeks.

Stiles feels himself freeze for just a moment, but it's a wisp of a second, too quick for him to notice. Natural instincts kick in and boy, are they strong with this damned girl. He pops off his seatbelt, pushes the door open and hurries round to her side of the car. Rests his chin against the edge of her wound down window for a second because he doesn't want to rush in with hugs and touching, just in case she wants space.

"Lydia, hey, Lydia," he says, trying to keep his voice soothing when really he's panicking inside. He can't help her, how can he help her when he's a mess himself? She looks up, her whole face seeming to tremble with the effort of holding some kind of control over her emotions.

"They're_ gone_, Stiles! Allison, Aiden- they're gone and they're never coming back and I _felt_ them go! And every time I look at you I feel so damn guilty because I shouldn't feel like this, not when they're dead, not when you have so much to worry about as it is!" She runs out of what little steam she has then, and dissolves back into tears. Stiles is trying to make sense of what she's saying, in particular what it is she doesn't want to do. He doesn't get anywhere with it.

So he asks: "What shouldn't you feel like?"

Lydia looks away, wiping at her sodden cheeks with a shake of her head. She's suddenly realised how much she's crying, how _stupid_ she must look to this boy who is dealing with demons the size of skycrapers. So Stiles pulls open her door, gently places a hand on her shoulder, repeats the ghost of a sentence that he hopes will bring her back:

"Lydia…you shouldn't care about who sees you cry…"

An echo, wham! The memory of her in her car, him in that ridiculously shiny tracksuit. Tapping against her window, eyes filled with a desperate desire to bring out her smile once more. She turns back to face him, and it's an automatic motion for him to reach across and push the latest teardrop off her face. "No kanima trapping me in a pool this time, Lydia. I'm not going anywhere. So talk to me- what shouldn't you feel like?"

Lydia catches his hand before it has a chance to return to his side and grips it tight. "That night, you said there was nothing I could say that would make you think I was crazy…right?" she murmurs, and Stiles nods.

"I was hunting for a book about creatures of the night to try and help my best friend and stop a crazy lizard killer thing…it couldn't get more crazy than that…"

Lydia takes a deep breath, then begins to speak in a slow, uncertain version of her usual voice: "I shouldn't feel like there's a missing hole in my life that has nothing to do with Allison and Aiden, but everything to do with you."

She stares at him desperately, clearly waiting for him to say something that will reassure her, that will make her feel better. Two years younger Stiles is getting the party music ready but present day Stiles is numb. Then comes guilt- he's hurting her by hiding away, not being around as much. He's hurting her by bringing out whatever feelings she has. He's hurting her by ripping Allison and Aiden from her life. _Stop it. You didn't do that, Stiles._ Lydia in his head, Lydia in front of him. Stuck between a rock and a hard place.

She goes on, sensing that he's not ready to speak yet: "I felt you coming to see me and all I could feel was this…relief. For the first time I could feel that and not…not them leaving me!" Without warning, she's pulling off her seatbelt and clambering from the seat and then tumbling like a barrel down a hill, and once again Stiles somehow manages to be there at just the right time. He catches her, arms wrapping right round her and holding tight.

They sink to the floor as one, broken, shaking mess. The ground is muddy here but neither of them care (not that Stiles ever would but it's a significant sign of Lydia's current state that she doesn't care about mud on her jeans). And Stiles doesn't know why he's crying as well but he is, with fat tears coming to rest in her hair as he presses his cheek against her head. Stiles has a feeling that if he kissed her right now, she would kiss him back. But he doesn't, no matter how much he wants to, no matter how much past Stiles is kicking him in the head for such behaviour. It wouldn't be right, because even if she does have feelings for him now, she's crying because of them. And him kissing her now would only make it worse. And god it hurts and it's so damn hard. But he loves her.

At some point, he's not sure when (there's that damn fox eating away at time again, probably), they end up resting against the side of his jeep with his arms around her and her head neatly rested in the crook of his neck. Even the tears stop eventually, both somehow managing to bring themselves back together at the same time. Then there's just silence, comfortable. It's weird but Stiles thinks this is what it feels like after you sleep with someone; a pleasant, confident awareness that there is no need to talk just yet. Except all they've done is cry together, go figure.

A few minutes of silence and Lydia presses one hand vaguely against one the Jeep's many dents, shaking her head. "How is it that your battered junk of a Jeep is doing better than all of us?" she asks, with a wispy laugh as she turns to face him. Her eyes are bright from all the tears, her cheeks splodged with red. She still looks beautiful though. Stiles imagines he probably isn't doing as well as her in that respect; he can just picture the angry patches of red and the dark circles forming under his eyes.

"She gets through everything," he replies with a shrug, a fond smile sent towards the car. "That's why my dad let me have her. He said there was no other car out there that would survive my driving. Promised me when I was just eight years old…my Dad bought it when Mom was pregnant with me, because she said they needed a car. She wanted a sensible family car and he came back with this…She said she shouted at him the most she's ever shouted at him but he refused to take it back, kept saying it was a good car, that he just knew it was a good car…Then when I was older she told me it was the only time she's been wrong and Dad's been right." Stiles' eyes are full of nostalgia as Lydia continues to rub absent-mindedly at a scuff mark on the car's paint, a small smile on her face because she loves it when Stiles talks about his family like this, without the weighty pain of his mother's loss. Just happy that he had those times with her at all.

"It is a good car, even if it looks like a burnt-out Smurf."

"Gee, thanks," Stiles huffs his mock disgust, tossing his head to the side until Lydia nudges him sharply in the side. He lets out a groan and drops down onto the ground, causing her to rapidly grab onto the Jeep to stop her following suit. Despite the tears still fresh in her eyes, she can't help but laugh as Stiles continues to roll dramatically across the ground. She wonders if this is what Allison and Scott did when they were together- just mess about and laugh and then tumble together into a knot of limbs. Jackson tended to skip over the first bit and at the time she didn't care, she didn't want anything else from him (or at least that's what she liked to pretend).

"Stiles! Stop!" she finally laughs after a good twenty seconds of this. Stiles tugs himself back up with a little help from her, coming to rest against the Jeep again. She glances over at him, drinking in every inch of the little grin currently resting on his still tear-stained face. "Stiles…" she begins, a little tentatively because she knows this lightness can be ruined by the smallest of things right now. "You can ask, you know…about what I was going on about, before…"

He glances over at her, then pats her leg gently, the last pat lingering just slightly. "I know. But not now." He doesn't want to tell her how much he wants to talk about it, wants to get to the bottom of her messy words. Doesn't want to let her know how much restraint he's showing right now.

She nods, then smiles weakly. "No, not now," she agrees, and awkwardly pats his leg back. "Thank you."

They don't stay much longer after that. It's starting to get dark and cold and they both have parents at home who are aching with worry for their busted-up children. He drives her home, leads her up to her front door. Pushes his hands into his pockets so he doesn't have to worry about where they should be in relation to her.

She hesitates at the door, watching him nervously. Somehow, he knows what's wrong. "You'll see me soon. I'll be at school on Monday. Promise."

Lydia quirks an eyebrow. "Like you'd be back in five minutes when I was crying in my car?"

Stiles shakes his head firmly. "Nothing like that. Now stop bugging me and go…I don't know, split an atom or something."

She laughs at that and Stiles only just makes out some witty comment about that not being her main scientific interests, before she's reached up to hug him and taken away all his concentration. And it's nice because for once they're not clinging to each other in desperation, not grasping at the fact that they're still alive. It's just a hug to say goodbye, see you later, thank you.

She goes inside then, shooting him a wry smile before she closes the door and Stiles wonders why Lydia smiles at him like a shy little girl, when she's the confident queen of flirting with every other guy. _Figure it out Stiles, you always figure it out._

He decides this is one thing he doesn't need to figure out just yet. He goes home, washes, stumbles into his pyjamas and sits on the edge of his bed. It's only then, as he's counting his fingers with practised speed, that he realise what he's promised to Lydia. He's got to go to school on Monday, and while he's been back before, he hasn't stayed for very long.

He lies back on his pillow, tries to find the comfort in it (he hasn't felt that comfort for a good while now). Nothing.

But then he remembers the quirk of her eyebrows that hid a slight distrust in any promises made to her. And he decides that it doesn't matter how scared he feels, he has to do it for her. New resolve firmly set in his heart, he rolls over and closes his eyes.

Of course, by Monday, with the shadows of hours awake firmly resting under his eyes, that resolve blows away like dandelions in the wind.


	3. Chapter 3

_Lying in bed with his hands on her stomach, rubbing in a circular motion as she sleeps, legs curled up against his, hair tickling against his nose. Her breath soft, steady as she begins to drift asleep. But before she drops off, she catches one hand and holds it, loosely but with an edge. For a moment her fingers skim across his until suddenly she's squeezing tight, as if her life depends upon it. "You promised me, Stiles." Her voice is full of fury, quiet but potent, terrifying. "Don't break your promises."_

_Then his hands are soaked without warning, and although it's dark he can tell it's blood. And then Lydia is pulling away from him, her breath catching in her throat until she starts screaming, and writhing. "You promised, Stiles!" she screams, and Stiles can feel the cold blade in his blood-soaked hands now, can feel it moving towards her again and-_

Stiles wakes up on the bathroom floor. It's not the first time he's woken up there; he's been an on-and-off sleepwalker since he can remember and for some reason his primary target has always been here. That doesn't stop the inevitable ache in his neck that comes from being sprawled on cold tiles for a prolonged period of time. Of course this is all just distraction, all just frills to stop him thinking about how he has slept for a total of four hours over the entire weekend and he's meant to be going to school, meant to be pretending to be alright for her. And all that is just more frills to stop him thinking of the image now burnt into his brain, of Lydia's blood staining his sheets, his clothes, his skin.

"Stiles?"

His father has arrived, towel over one arm. _6:30am, time for Dad's shower before work. _If Stiles was running on schedule, he would still be asleep for another fifteen minutes. No such luck there. With a groan, Stiles unsticks his cheek from the floor and rubs at the slightly sore skin there. Anticipating his father's question, he shakes his head and waves a hand vaguely in his direction.

"It's fine, I'm fine. Just…dreaming," Stock phrase of many. And boy does his father know that, giving him that doubtful expression as he rests against the door frame. "You'll be wanting the bathroom," Stiles decides the best approach right now is distraction and avoidance. It's not that he doesn't want to talk to his father about the dreams and the sleepwalking (because there sure isn't anybody else who understands what happens to Stiles when he sleeps). It's just that he doesn't want to think about it when he's supposed to go to school, when he's got a promise to keep.

Scott said it was crazy, said he was putting too much pressure on himself. But Stiles hadn't listened, not when all he could hear was Lydia and her laugh as she hugged him outside her house. He had told himself that he would sleep all weekend, that it would be fine. It hasn't worked out that way.

"You don't have to go, Stiles- to school, I mean. You do have to leave the bathroom because I've got a hell of a lot of dirt to wash off before work." His father tries a joke, and Stiles even manages a weak laugh as he's helped onto his feet.

"I do. It's important. I'll be fine, Dad. Really. It's just school."

Just school. If only it was that simple. First time he tried was three weeks ago. He had made it through one lesson but then he had heard someone talking about Allison, and Scott had had to almost carried him to the nurse's office, as a panic attack wracked his entire body. _But this time will be different. She needs me there._

He paces his room for a while, until his alarm actually goes off. Fiddles with the books on his shelves, tries sitting on his bed, tries sitting on the floor. His alarm squawks merrily from his bedside table and although he turns it off straight away, he doesn't make any effort to move just yet. Five minutes go past, then another, and still all he can do is sit there and keep reading the title of the nearest book over and over, checking the letters are still in the right place.

His dad comes in, dressed in his Sheriff's uniform and bringing in the smell of cooking. "There's some bacon in the pan with your name on it, buddy."

Stiles drags his eyes away from the book, frowns at his father. "We said no fried food for breakfast, Dad." He still worries about his father's health, even though there's a dozen or so supernatural beings in the nearby vicinity who could easily kill him if he wanted to. He's the only one he's got left, he isn't taking any chances. "I didn't spend forty minutes being told the ins and outs of muesli by that shop assistant just so that you could make bacon."

"No, but I figured you could use it." His father is smiling, though it looks like it's hurting him. Once upon a time being sassed by his son was just normal, as regular as clockwork. Now, though, when Stiles does bring out his sarcasm muscle it just serves to remind his father how little he does it these days. "If you're going to school…you need to get up and go to school…Otherwise you won't ever leave. It's what I tell the thieves who keep telling me this is the last time I'm going to lock 'em up- no point saying it, you've got to follow it through."

Stiles crinkles his brow, sighs. "Literally every cop in the world says that, Dad," he mutters, but his father knows he's got the point. And a second later he stands up, running a hand through his hair before moving towards his closet.

"Just school, Stiles. I've got to go to work but you call me if you need me and I'll come get you right away, no problem."

"What if you're chasing down a murderer?" Stiles pops his head round his closet to shoot his father a piercing look of curiosity. It's a genuine question, possibly. Then again Stiles thrives on testing any claims to their limits, always has.

"Just shut up and get dressed." Not a particularly surprising answer. With a shake of his head, the Sheriff makes to leave. But then he hesitates, comes back to the door and then into Stiles' room itself. He places a hand on his son's shoulder, then gently pulls him round into a firm, solid hug and seventeen years of these and Stiles still hasn't stopped marvelling in their magic. "You'll be fine," he says once he's pulled away, giving Stiles a firm slap on the back before finally finding the courage to leave his son alone to face the school day.

Once his father's gone, it's relatively easy to leave. He doesn't like being in an empty house, not when every shadow has the swishing tail of a fox, and every whistle of wind sounds like a whispered riddle in his ear. Usually he'd just drift around town, trying to find some sense of security. But not today, today he has that damned promise resting on his shoulders.

He gets dressed, packs his rucksack with a random assortment of books, wanders out of the house. He's in a daze, he knows that. But he actually prefers it, he doesn't have to think about how ridiculous this is, how bad a decision he's making.

And then he's there. Outside school and in his same parking spot and his fingers tremble against the wheel. It looks exactly the same; squat concrete building, empty gaping windows. People mill around as if nothing has changed and, to them, nothing has changed. Same old school day for them. The jealousy he feels for them is so thick that it almost feels like he's going to choke on it, because all he can see is Aiden sprawled on the floor by those stairs.

Tap. Tap.

The knocking on his window is clearly done with as much care as possible to avoid startling him, but Stiles is so on edge that he still manages to jerk violently, smacking his head against the roof of his car. "God…dammit," he gasps, hand coming to cradle his throbbing cranium as he turns to see the culprit.

Scott practically has his nose pressed against the window, but jumps back as Stiles pushes open the door. "Hey, you came," he says, smiling somewhat awkwardly. Squeeze his best friend's shoulder as Stiles slams the door of his car shut.

"Yeah, yeah I came," Stiles mutters in return but his eyes dart all around, not in any way focused on his friend. He's checking for dangers, trying to see if there's anything out of place, trying to check he hasn't sneaked here in the night and planted some hideous booby traps again. Hyper-vigilance is just part of his life now, it seems.

Scott senses this. He always does. Scott used to be able to tell when Stiles was going to have a panic attack, and would distract him with terrible jokes until it passed. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't. But his detection skills are still very much present. He wraps an arm round Stiles' shoulders and gently pulls him towards the building. "Don't worry about it, you're going to be fine. If you have to go just go- you've done a massive thing just by turning up."

"I can't go anywhere, I promised her."

Scott shoots his friend a slightly reprimanding look that he most certainly copied from the ones Stiles is always giving him. "Lydia will understand, she'll appreciate the fact that you tried."

Stiles doesn't answer. They're on the threshold of entering school now, and for once he's not simultaneously pushing open the door with Scott (their friendship thrives quite significantly on routine). Instead he's stumbling against it, his shoulder doing the work for him, because all he can see now is his dark-eyed shadow throwing Scott across the corridor and then turning on him and Lydia. Scott holds him steady, watching him anxiously because he can feel the stares coming their way and Stiles doesn't need that, doesn't need people gawping at him.

Truth be told, though, Stiles doesn't notice any of it. He's just looking for the flash of strawberry blonde among the crowds. He doesn't hear the whispers around him- _Isn't that the one who got put in Echo House because he went crazy? Someone told me he was at that hospital that night, that night all those people died. _Probably a good thing he doesn't hear them, it certainly wouldn't help.

"Where is she?" he whispers across to Scott, somehow managing to disentangle himself from his friend. He needs to look like he's at least somewhat put together or Lydia will just shake her head and make him go home, disappointment in her eyes.

"I don't know. Probably by her locker," Scott replies, and part of him wonders if this is what he was like with Allison. A mess, with a ton of other things to worry about and yet somehow just focused on this one girl. No wonder Stiles used to get so frustrated with him. Stiles is here, he's not in his pyjamas, he's not possessed- surely that should be enough for him? But Scott can see in his eyes, that steely determination bordering on obsessiveness (something that Stiles often borders on if he's honest).

Stiles can feel his chest constricting with panic because he doesn't know how much time he has before he can't be here anymore, and he needs to see her, needs to prove to her, needs to show that he won't ever break a promise with her no matter how much it hurts.

"There!" A flash of her hair, a snatch of her voice and Stiles is running towards her, almost pushing people out of his way to reach her in time. She's stopping by her locker, talking to someone else as her hands go to her lock. "Lydia!" he calls, and she turns towards him. But so does the person next to her and Stiles skids to a halt, mouth drying out. Malia.

"Stiles!" Lydia exclaims, her eyes wide with surprise (but he can see the little smile in the corner of her mouth, the little nod of satisfaction lurking there). "You're…here!"

Malia's eyes dart from Lydia to Stiles, to the lurking Scott. Then she smiles too. "I didn't expect to see you here so soon- you don't ever give yourself a chance to rest, huh?" she comments.

Stiles swallows because Malia's eyes on him just remind him of her hands running up his chest, tangling up in his hair. And he's not sure Lydia knows about that yet, not sure he's ready for her to know it either. Sure, she was probably sleeping with Aiden at the exact same time but Stiles was meant to wait for her (in his head anyway).

"Got bored," he finally replies, almost snaps and he can't bring himself to make eye contact with her. And it feels bad for that, feels that panicky guilt rising up in his chest, so bad that he stumbles back. Scott manages to catch him, propping him back up with a little nod, a silent 'you're welcome, buddy'. "Um…Lydia, can I…talk to you for a second?" he asks. Not sure what he wants to say but he just knows he can't juggle this many people watching him at once.

Lydia nods, shoots Malia a small smile. "Save me a seat, I'll be right there," she says, gently pressing one hand against the girl's arm for a moment before beckoning Stiles to follow her. He does, shooting Stiles a brief nod of reassurance before stumbling after her. She leads them to an empty classroom, closes the door behind them. Then she turns to face him, eyebrows quirking upwards questioningly. And then he remembers that he asked to speak to her, not the other way round.

"Um…" he begins, casting around for some inspiration. "I'm here," he finally states, immediately cringing at how pathetic it sounds.

Lydia looks at him for a moment, then nods slowly. "Yes, you are…" she replies, her expression still one of expectation. _So what? _It says.

"I promised I would be, and here I am." _Shut up idiot, she gets it. _He finds his fingers pleating together, searching for any extra digits that don't belong. Safe.

Lydia smiles gently, reaches across to squeeze his arm. "Yes, you did, and yes you are. Now go home."

"What?"

"Go home, Stiles. You can barely walk on your own, you keep counting your fingers and you look like you didn't sleep all weekend." Her face flushes suddenly with emotion and she takes a step forward, menacing enough to make him step back. "Don't you dare force yourself into this mess for me, Stiles. I just meant I wanted to see you again but this…this isn't you. This is broken Stiles and I will not be responsible for fracturing yourself like this!" Her eyes flash and for a moment it looks like she's going to cry. But she's in school, not a road on the edge of town. She's not going to cry here.

Stiles is shocked, to say the least. In his mind, all he had to do was get here for her and she would be happy, she would be relieved and he would miraculously feel better. That's how it was meant to work, right? Not like this. She's waiting for him to say something but he can't, his tongue is frozen and his voice is lost, locked away somewhere. She sighs, waves a hand dismissively in his direction. "Please Stiles, just go home. Sleep. You're not ready yet. And that's okay."

"You looked…looked like you needed me to be here." He's finally found his voice again, and somehow he manages to move to stop her running away just yet. Realises that might be a little creepy so moves slightly to the left, so the door isn't completely blocked by him.

She frowns at him. "I need lots of thing right now, Stiles. I need Allison back, I need my parents to stop arguing over the phone about what to do about me. I need to stop having headaches _all the damn time_." She bites down on her lip. "Just because I need it, doesn't mean I'm going to get it."

"Lydia, I'm trying to give you something you need and you don't want it?" he demands, staring at her with exasperation because sometimes this girl just makes no damn sense.

"No. Not like this." She slips past him then, adjusting her grip on her bag. "I've got to go, I need to get to class. If I see you in school again today, I'm calling your father and telling him how stupid you're being."

"Lydia!" He grits his teeth, hands coming to his hair in frustration (and how is it that her being this infuriating stops the fluttering panic in his chest?).

She shakes her head firmly, and then she's gone. He follows after her, catching the open door and stopping short to watch as she stalks off into the crowd. _You're something!_ Words echoed from his memory and he glances back to the classroom, distantly realising that this is the very classroom he tried to get Lydia to find his father. Of course.

Scott is hovering over by his locker, across the corridor. Class is about to start but Scott would rather wait for his friend than be on time. When Stiles moves over, he straightens up, raises an eyebrow. "Well?" he asks.

"She told me to go home." Despite this setback, Stiles actually feels better. Seeing her has reminded him how much better he had felt when he been with her the other day, when he had felt that he could actually get better.

"Oh. Are you going to?" Scott asks, but his slight smile suggests he already knows the answer. Stiles has that look on his face that he gets when he's concocting an idea. Terrible ideas usually- think lacrosse balls being lobbed at his person and cars being keyed.

"No. She said she didn't want broken Stiles. So I just need to fix up, right? And if I get through the whole day then I have to be fixed, right? Or fixed enough…So I just get through the day. Sorted."

Scott is watching him in a slightly dubious, slightly pitying way. "Stiles…" he begins, and Stiles can feel the sensible lecture that's about to come his way. He stops it by covering up his friend's mouth, then tugging him towards the centre of the hallway.

"What lesson have we got first?"

"Stiles-" This protestation is muffled because Stiles still has a hand over his mouth. A second later and Scott has managed to wrestle himself free, and shoots Stiles an infuriated glare. "You're being ridiculous."

"That's a good sign. Ridiculous is what normal, unbroken Stiles does. We can work with that. What lesson, Scott?"

Scott grits his teeth, staring at his friend with utmost frustration. He's reminded of the time Stiles had broken his arm (he'd been trying to fetch their kite from a tree after some bigger kids threw it up there), and had insisted they still go bike riding after school. One-handed bike riding hadn't been particularly successful and the setting sun had seen Stiles and Scott lying on the side of the road in stitches because Stiles had lost control of his bike and sent it careering into Mrs Levington from across the road's hedge. Stiles did what he thought was best, and always had done. And yes, Mrs Levington had told their parents and they'd been banned from seeing each other for a whole weekend but it had been worth it, because they'd forgotten about the broken arm and the lost kite. Maybe it would be like that now.

Except Stiles' arm wasn't broken this time. Something else was, something that couldn't be set right with a cast.

But Scott knows there's no point arguing anymore. So he tugs his friend down the corridor, leading him to History. And while Stiles is determined to show Lydia that he can do this, he is somewhat relieved that this is one class they don't share. Because if she does call his father, he'll be here in a second and then game over.

Into the classroom, and Stiles determinedly ignores the stares he's getting. He feels a slight rush of pride that his usual seat, next to Scott and three from the front, is unoccupied. "Good to see you, man," one of the Lacrosse players (Ryan? Rory?) pats his back as he passes. Yes, it is good isn't it? He can do this, it's going to be fine.

He sits down, tries not to look at all the posters in this room to check they're legible. Tries not to count his fingers because that what broken Stiles does. Normal Stiles tries to sit still and tries not to fiddle with every bit of stationary he owns, while somehow taking in everything the teacher is saying (in that sense, Stiles really is a genius).

And somehow, he gets through it. Scott keeps stealing glances at him, obviously waiting for his friend to break down and run out of the classroom. But it never happens. The bell rings and the class disperses and Stiles stands up. "What's next?" he asks Scott, gathering up his books and tipping them artfully into the waiting mouth of his rucksack.

"Uh, Maths?" Scott replies, staring at his friend with wonder. "How did you-"

Stiles shrugs, grins. "Just being ridiculous." He starts for the door, pulling his rucksack on as Scott hurries to keep up with him.

"So that's it- you're just…better?"

Stiles shoots Scott an incredulous look as only Stiles can. "Sure, Scott," he says, sarcasm dripping. "Just like that."

"Well it sure looked like it in there," Scott argues, trying to defend his question because already he's cringing at how stupid it sounded.

"Just getting started."

"What does that even mean?" Scott groans. He's loving this confidence, this apparent step towards recovery but he's still worried that one setback will send Stiles careering into another full-blown panic attack that will end with him being sent to hospital again (that was the second time he tried coming back to school).

Stiles doesn't answer. They're in the hallway now and he's seen Lydia. She stops dead in the corridor, staring at him. "I told you to go home," she snaps, crossing her arms across her chest.

"Since when have I ever done what you told me to do?" Stiles returns, coming to a halt in front of her. He grins, eyes twinkling with a flicker of their old light (before the nogitsune snuffed it out). "You said I was broken. Let me show you that I'm not. I'm going to get through today and show you that I'm getting better, and that I'm going to be here for you, Lydia."

Lydia fumes at him for five whole seconds, and Scott is sure at one point that she's going to hit him. But she doesn't. "Fine," she snaps, "I'm just trying to protect you but if you really think you know better than someone who actually _reads_ about post-traumatic stress disorder-"

"Pretty sure I don't have that," he interrupts, but is then silenced by a furious glare from her.

"If you make it to the end of the day then fine, I'll believe you're ready to be here. But if you don't…" she pauses, and jabs his chest for good measure. "Then you have to promise me that you will go see a proper professional and stop trying to get better on your own like some…super hero!"

Stiles considers it, then nods. Determination painted in steely tones across his eyes. "Deal. But if I get through the day, thus proving you wrong, you have to see a professional, because you clearly need one."

"Why don't you just both see one?" Scott mutters from beside Stiles, and receives two matched glares.

Stiles turns back to Lydia, holds out his hand. She shakes it, then shoots Scott a look of irritation that says _Don't you dare judge me for this, McCall. _Then she's turned in a whirlwind of autumn-coloured curls and stormed off again.

Stiles watches her go, then turns to Scott. He grins, his eyes still lit with something that Scott wasn't sure he'd ever see again. It's the opposite of the hopeless, dejected darkness that has been there for the last few weeks. It's nice, and Scott can't help but match his friend's grin as Stiles pats his back and utters two, determined words:

"Game on."


	4. Chapter 4

He doesn't make it. He gets to the last period, halfway through, then finds a memory lurking somewhere under his desk, that tackles him full-force to the ground. Stiles tries with all his might to shut it out, to focus on the maths lesson, but he can't.

He can only see a smashed window, feel the night air whipping round his face and the dead panic upon releasing a dark druid has stolen his father for a human sacrifice. It's stupid; that was ages ago, they got through that. His father is fine. But all he can see is a broken window, a crumpled sheriff's badge. And that's enough. Scott doesn't get there in time, he's had to sit on the other side of the classroom. He sees his friend's back roll forward, knows he's struggling. But he doesn't get there in time, it happens too quickly. One second Stiles is struggling, the next he's gone.

A mumbled explanation to the teacher, a mess of desperate limbs as he tears for the door. It slams behind him. He tries to find solace in the quiet peace of the hallway, devoid of students for once. But all he can see is his own body becoming powder and crumbling to the ground at his feet. It's not helping, there isn't anywhere left in this school that doesn't have an ugly scar carved out of it. And he's trying to patch them up but they just keep opening.

Stiles knows that Scott will be after him any second now but for some reason he can't face that idea. Can't face his best friend's kind hand on his shoulder, his look of sympathy as he takes him to be picked up by his father. Because then Scott will go back to class and get on with it, while Stiles is taken home like some sickly child and it's not fair.

So he runs down the corridor, round corners and up flights of stairs; anything to lose Scott (even though he knows Scott has his scent on speed-dial, so to speak). Somehow, he ends up in the art studio. It's empty, no class in there at this moment in time. He shuts the door, tries to ignore the slightly choking must and smell of chemicals. He already feels like he can't breathe and this room isn't really helping. He's about to turn and leave, to find somewhere else to hole up until the final bell for the day (would it be so bad to pretend to Lydia that he did it, he succeeded?). But then he hears a sniff from somewhere in the corner. The sound of someone hastily pulling themselves together in the face of possible intrusion.

Stiles pauses, takes a nervous step towards the centre. There would have been a time, not even that long ago, when he would have been curious, and nothing else. None of this heart-thudding, palms-sweating terror he's feeling he has now. Sometimes a nasty voice likes to whisper in his ear, to tell him that it was his own fault he got possessed. By prying in things that weren't his business.

He stills keeps going though. He wants to know.

He peeks around an easel, ready to take down a crying werewolf if he needs to (he's not really). But it's not a crying werewolf. It's a crying banshee. But Stiles prefers to call her Lydia.

She's crying without any breath left in her, her chest heaving up and down in short, sharp movements. She's exhausted. The wide yet glossed over look of her eyes settles it; she's having a panic attack. She's been having one for a while. Stiles isn't sure how long she's been here or how she's managed to not pass out yet. But he quickly concludes that that doesn't matter. She needs help.

He isn't sure that he's the best person for the job. His own panic attack is hovering somewhere around his ears, temporarily distracted by the sight of Lydia's tears. It could return at any moment and then what use would it be?

He doesn't care. "Lydia?" he asks, a little nervously. He knows that when he's mid-panic, he can snap at those trying to break through the glass box closing in around him. If Lydia snaps at him, what will he do next? Probably just sit and panic next to her, try and match his hyperventilating to her own.

She finally looks at him and sucks in a deep breath, shaking her head. "I'm fine," she whispers, "just…I'm fine," she repeats, and Stiles knows what she's doing. She's trying to convince herself that she's alright, that she can get through this on her own. "I just…I just…" Her face crumples and she's starting to cry again. "I don't know how to do it without her Stiles!"

It's an impressive amount of speaking considering her current state. Stiles doesn't remember ever being able to say quite that much during one of his panics. Sitting down beside her, he keeps his hands in his lap (just in case this is one of those panic attacks that get worse with someone else's touch). But she's having none of that. She turns herself towards him, her face coming to press firmly against his arm until he shifts to pull her against his side in a slightly lopsided one-armed hug. Then she wriggles slightly, coming to rest against the ridge of his collar bone. He can feel her tears pooling there. His eyes drift across the room, expecting to find the fallen Aiden sprawled on the floor because this is so damn familiar.

He is vaguely aware that Lydia's crying has a pattern, centred around her determination to hide her tears. It makes him sad that she is so scared about showing him the tear tracks on her cheeks, but he can't blame her. Not when the only reason he has come across her is because he was running away from sharing another panic attack with Scott. So he lets her try and stifle her sobs (decidedly in vain) for a few minutes, until she suddenly calms. Panics attacks can be like that; like a fire raging until suddenly one big bucket of water extinguishes it completely. She flops in his arms, exhausted. He feels as if he's been holding his own fear back the whole time she's been freaking out against him and now he too feels fatigue dragging his shoulders down.

Finally, she looks up at him. "I wanted to be her lab partner. Nobody else's. But she's not here and I just don't know how to keep going without her…" She's not really talking to him, more to herself. But he nods his understanding, just in case she needs some reaction from him. "I keep thinking she's going to come back, like this is some sort of holiday she's on. But she doesn't. She's never going to come back, Stiles…."

Hearing his name, Stiles decides that this is his moment to speak. "I know," he says, after a long moment of silence as he tries to work out what he can possibly say to help. "I miss her too." And he does. He misses her in between the horror of what the nogitsune made him do, where he feels a thick guilt that he doesn't spend more time mourning her loss._ We killed her Stiles, we wanted to kill her, we don't care_, says the voice in his head at this time and that's usually when Stiles starts having to scream himself awake or start counting his fingers.

"Why did she have to die?" Lydia whispers, her voice shattered like a china doll that some petulant child has picked up, and thrown across the room. The voice still lingering in his mind tells him that what Lydia is really asking is why did he have to kill her and Stiles has to cough to stop panic sealing his throat shut.

The cough brings Lydia's gaze up to him and she frowns, realisation blossoming in the corner of her red raw eyes. "But…you're not okay either, are you?" She kneels up on her legs, her face inches away from his. She's suddenly lucid again, and Stiles knows that she will see through any lie he tries to spin her.

So he shakes his head. A wonky smile tries to break through but doesn't quite succeed, leaving him with an odd grimace. "But you already knew that, right?" he asks, bitterness in his voice. She's the banshee who can apparently sense his every emotion- surely that means he's spared having to admit his failure himself?

She manages a smile back (even that little, reluctant smile brings a light to her eyes that Stiles thinks is brighter than the sun). "I was a bit preoccupied," she admits, gesturing to her tear-scarred cheeks. She shifts so she's resting against the wall instead of Stiles' shoulders, her eyes narrowing as she concentrates for a moment. "Your dad…you were scared about him?" she asks, and Stiles has to marvel at her abilities, despite everything. He nods, eyes straying down to his fingers. She places a hand on his arm, gently squeezes. "He's okay, he's still okay."

"When I was…when he was..." Stiles closes his eyes, because he doesn't like to think of the nogitsune and how it felt to have that monster strutting around his mind. "When I wasn't me, sometimes the nogitsune would just feed me with these images, over and over. And they were always the same. He was dead and I had his blood all over my hands. And sometimes he would show me how I did it, how I took my time killing him, so the pain never went away, until he was begging to be killed…" Stiles feels his heart quickening again so stops talking. He can't lose his grip again, he was doing so well.

"But you didn't, Stiles. You wouldn't."

"I hurt Scott, didn't I? It's the same thing. I had no power over what that thing was doing, none. I was damn useless," he spits out this last word, a word he's heard so many times in relation to himself. Teachers whispering in the staff room; _he's a sweet kid but he's useless, won't amount to anything_.

Lydia shrugs. "I wasn't able to stop myself poisoning all of you guys at my birthday party, either. We're not superhuman, Stiles. We're not werewolves. And who knows whether even one of the werewolves would have been able to keep that thing out? It chose you Stiles, because you had so much love in your life. It knew it could cause the most chaos with you. Knew you had the brains so that combined with its own, it would be almost unstoppable." She smiles weakly, and nudges him with one shoulder. "You probably should be flattered."

Stiles has to laugh that that. He glances to her and Lydia isn't sure she's ever seen someone look at her with such love in their eyes. Even her parents never mustered up that much emotion; not because they didn't love her but just because they didn't do emotions in the same way that Stiles did. Stiles was unabashed about how he felt for people. If he hated them, he hated them. If he cared, he cared with every ounce of him. "That's one way of looking at it," she hears him say, distantly. She knows it's her turn to speak now but she can't quite find the words she's looking for, as if someone has pulled English right out of her head. He's waiting for her, and a moment later he's grinning in a slightly knowing way that irritates her enough to snap her out of it.

"Shut up," she says, and stands up.

"I didn't say anything," he grins, stumbling onto his own feet (sometimes she imagines Stiles has a couple of invisible limbs that exist purely to trip him up).

"You had a look, on your face."

"An interrogatory one?" he asks, quick as a whip. He's grinning even more now, thriving on her irritation like he always has. And like she always has with him, if she's honest.

"Very funny."

He flicks his head back in a smug movement of acceptance. Then he turns serious again, hands sliding back into his pockets. "Do you really believe those things? Or are you just saying them to make me feel better?"

She shakes her head at once. "That's not really my style," she points out, shrugging. He has to nod at that because it's true. Lydia doesn't really like to beat around the bush. "I read up about them, when we were trying to find a way to save you. This book said that the nogitsune will do anything it can to cause as much chaos as possible, including who it picks as a host. It couldn't pick Scott because he's already a wolf and Allison…" she shifts, uncomfortable because she doesn't want to speak ill of someone no longer here. "Well, Allison's family meant that she upset some people in the past, who then didn't trust her. You were the perfect and only choice out of the three who sacrificed themselves to the Nemeton."

This makes Stiles feel a little lighter. In his head, he is the idiot, the fool, the weak one who was easy prey to the dark fox. But Lydia makes him almost sound like a hero. "Thanks," he whispers, and finds himself taking her hand, squeezing it gently. She glances down at it and for a moment Stiles thinks she's going to pull it back, but she doesn't. She keeps it there and then slowly squeezes back.

"We should get back to class," she murmurs finally, after a comfortable moment of silence.

Stiles shakes his head. "No we shouldn't…."

"We shouldn't?" she turns to stare at him, confused and slightly apprehensive (because when Stiles starts disagreeing with her plans, it usually means he's about to do something incredibly crazy and stupid. Think fire alarm.)

"No, we shouldn't." He comes to stand in front of her, and places his hands firmly on her shoulders. "Lydia, we made a bet. And I lost. But so did you. Neither of us can make it through a day at school, we're a mess. We shouldn't be here. Our friends died, to name but a few nuggets of shit that we've dealt with lately. So why do we think we should be trying to fight our way through school days? Screw it, life's too short. Let's get out of here."

Lydia raises an eyebrow, clearly not convinced just yet. "Where would we go?" she asks, looking around the room as if this is the entire world now.

Stiles shrugs, waggles his eyebrows in an almost challenging fashion. "Anywhere."

Lydia rolls her eyes, pushes past him. "Stiles, I'm not really in the mood for some wild journey into the unknown. I'm tired. You were having some pretty vivid dreams last night so guess what that meant for me. I just want to get through today and go home and rest."

Stiles grits his teeth, pushes his hands together in frustration. "Fine, fine, fine no adventure," he huffs, hurrying after her and coming to block her path again. "Come back to mine. We have too many boxes of cookies because my dad thinks that's the answer to everything. Plus he's off work today so we won't be alone in the house in case you were worried about it being weird…"

"You know I wasn't until you said that," Lydia huffs, rolls her eyes again. Then she pauses, clearly considering it. "I have a science paper due tomorrow."

"I can help, you know I'm better at science than you."

Lydia shoots him a look of abject disgust at such an idea. But it's hiding a smirk that suggests she knows he's right. Maths on the other hand- he stands no chance. With a start, she realises that this is one reason perhaps that Stiles will always reside in a different part of her heart to Aiden. Because he will actually study with her when he asks to, not just try and get her dress off. "Are you really in a state to study?" she asks.

"Are you?" he retorts. When she doesn't answer, he moves to open the door. "I have cookies, a father who will make terrible jokes at you and quite possibly the best collection of stupid sci-fi films that I know you're itching analyse the logic of with me. I know we think we're not allowed to be happy right now, but when have we ever cared about the rules?"

Lydia considers it, then purses his lips. "If we go, you lose the bet," she states, grinning.

"So do you," he retorts, but she shakes her head.

"You said if you did make it through the day, I lost. You said nothing about me staying in school."

Stiles opens his mouth to argue, then realises she's absolutely right. He grits his teeth, then smirks, takes her hand and tugs her towards the door. "It's worth a few meetings with the guidance counsellor."

"At least five."

Stiles pauses their progress back down the stairs, turns to shoot her a forlorn look. "Five?" he splutters, and she nods.

"And I'll be checking. I know where the files are kept now."

"You're evil." Stiles states this with rather a lot of feeling but Lydia is quite used to this boy insulting her as if he means it. It doesn't bother her at all, not when she knows how he carefully frames her drawings, buys out whole department stores because he's scared to get her the wrong birthday present.

So she just laughs and nods. "An evil old banshee," she agrees.

He turns to face her, standing on the step below so that they're basically the same height. "Evil, yes. Banshee, yes. Old? Not quite. You're too pretty to be old yet, Lydia Martin." The words come out of his mouth automatically and maybe in the past he would be embarrassed. But not now. And it's that unabashed adoration for her that makes her suddenly lean down and kiss him.

Flush on the lips.

And just like before, when she was trying to halt his panic attack, she feels that little spark flash against her chest. That spark of realisation that she's got to find a way to be brave enough and let herself fall in love with this boy. She feels the softness of his lips, the slight puff of a surprised breath, the nub of his nose resting against his. And he feels a warmth spreading across his shoulders and down his back, feels her lipstick smudging against his lips, feels her hands coming to rest against his cheeks.

She pulls away a second later. She's looking at him with wild panic in her eyes as if she's terribly afraid she's overstepped a mark. So he moves to reassure her, placing one hand on her back. "Did you think I was having another panic attack?" he asks, grinning.

"Something like that." Her voice is a whisper, as if she still doesn't quite trust herself.

Stiles nods, still grinning (and why wouldn't he? This has been his standard dream for longer than he can remember). "Thought so." He moves his hand back to hers, takes it with a firm sense of confidence that this is where it belongs. "Come on. Wouldn't want to have another panic attack, would we?"

Sitting in class, trying not to worry, Scott receives a text from Stiles. It says three words: "Ten year plan." He grins, shakes his head, returns to his work. Because he has this sneaking suspicion that if Lydia Martin has finally started fulfilling her side of the plan then Stiles might just be alright.


	5. Chapter 5

Sheriff Stilinski has come home to many a strange thing over the years, as a direct result of being the father of a kid like Stiles. He has grown used to it, like he's grown used to the empty space on her side of his bed (that's a lie, he's not used to that at all). When Stiles was four, he came home to find his wife had fallen asleep in front of the telly and Stiles had somehow managed to find a bag of flour and empty it all over the kitchen floor. When Stiles was six, the Sheriff walked into the sitting room and is promptly knocked out by a rogue Lacrosse ball. He woke up to Scott and Stiles scooping ice cream onto his forehead like some sticky makeshift ice pack.

Of course, when Claudia died, the Sheriff came home to more unnerving things. Stiles locking himself in the bathroom and crying so hard that his father was terrified his lungs were going to burst. _Melissa, can a kid cry too hard? Can you die from crying? _The frantic phone call afterwards, the reassurances that he'd be okay (physically at least). When he had late shifts and Stiles was old enough to be left on his own, the Sheriff would sometimes come home and find Stiles' sleepwalking had taken him to increasingly bizarre places. Under the kitchen table, in the bath, on his mother's side of the bed. Shivering on the front porch.

Then Scott gets bitten and looking back on it, the Sheriff can't believe he missed all the signs. Coming home to find Stiles buried deep in textbooks about lycanthropy, coming home to find Stiles carefully sweeping a black strange powder back into a little bag (the clumsy idiot). Coming home to find Stiles packing up the long chain his father uses to keep the garage secure (the lock broke years ago).

This time, though, the Sheriff is caught off guard. He is expecting Stiles to be at school, he hasn't called to say he needs picking up so why wouldn't he be there? Because he's Stiles, that's why. Too smart for any damn routine or for sticking to any damn plans.

He walks into the kitchen. He promptly wants to walk right out again. For a moment he think he's been robbed. By an ex-baker. There is flour everywhere. Flour on the floor, the table, even in the sink. Then there are the egg shells. He didn't even know they had that many eggs in the house. Every countertop has one of the damned things, cracked and dripping leftover egg white onto the surface. Somehow Stiles has rooted out Claudia's old food processor from the loft and it now stands on the table, bleeding cake mix steadily into the cracks in the wooden surface.

The response is automatic. "STILES!" he bellows (it's one of those moments when he is so pissed that he almost considers using his son's real name until he remembers how much time it takes to spit the damned thing out).

"Living room!" The reply is unforgivably relaxed. It causes the sheriff to grind his teeth, clench his fists and then stomp into the living room.

Again, Sheriff Stilinski is caught off guard. The living room is shrouded in darkness thanks to the curtains being shut and no lights being on. In fact the only way he can actually see the occupants of the room is from the light of the television. Thank goodness he can see them, or else he might have started bellowing at his son without realising that Lydia Martin is there too.

Lydia Martin. Sat on the sofa with Stiles' jumper on and her head resting just inches away from Stiles' shoulder, until she turns to look at the Sheriff. There are two bowls of cake mix on the coffee table, wooden spoons protruding from them, and the television is blaring out one of Stiles' stupid end-of-all-humanity films. Stiles turns to look at him also, and the Sheriff is taken aback by how happy his son looks. The dark circles under his eyes are still there, but the glittering in his eyes makes up for that. Then again, Lydia Martin is on the sofa wearing his clothes; of course he's bloody happy.

"Kitchen?" The Sheriff finally asks, after staring at this strange scene for a few seconds.

Stiles nods, then points at the bowls on the table. "Sustenance," he replies. He shoots Lydia a grin, which the girl receives with a roll of the eyes.

The Sheriff is not amused. "School?" His next question causes the two teens to exchange a meaningful look. Then Stiles shrugs and looks back to his father.

"Difficult," he admits and Sheriff has to stop himself staring as Lydia reaches across to squeeze his son's arm. Then she turns to smile weakly at him.

"Do you two always stalk in one word sentences?" she asks, glancing between the pair with amusement tickling at the corners of her eyes.

Stiles snorts. "When Dad's angry, he sometimes forgets his words," he sniggers. "I'll clean up the kitchen, don't worry." He adds this hastily, because he can see the end of his father's patience approaching fast.

"Uh huh? And school?" Sheriff Stilinski prompts, hands coming to rest on his hips. In truth he's just relieved his son hasn't had to phone home and be picked up because he's got himself into such a state, but he has to at least pretend to be unimpressed.

Lydia jumps in then, shifting so she's resting up on her knees and thus a little more visible over the top of the couch. "It was my fault, I needed to get out of there and Stiles said I could come here and watch…this," she says, gesturing at the television in a way that suggests she's not quite sold on Stiles' favourite genre of films.

"We were both finding it a bit tough," Stiles agrees, shooting his father a look that says _if you ruin this for me I swear to God I'll tell Melissa you sing along to One Direction in the shower. _

The Sheriff considers it for a moment, his eyes lingering on his son's lips for a moment because he's sure they're not usually that pink. Then he huffs a breath. "I've been doing paperwork all day," he states.

Stiles nods, immediately understanding. "Chinese or Pizza?" he questions and when Lydia looks to him with a small frown he goes on to explain: "When Dad has to do paperwork all day, we get takeaway. Mum used to call it Paperwork pie…even though it wasn't a pie," he shrugged, flushing slightly until Lydia lets out a soft, tinkling laugh of understanding. Then he straightens up and grins. Damned smitten fool.

"Chinese. And if you get any of that pick choi again, there'll be trouble."

"Pak choi, Dad…"

"Whatever, it still tastes like pond weed." While Stiles' rolls his eyes, Sheriff Stilinski turns to Lydia. "Would you like to stay for dinner?" he asks, trying not to sound too hopeful. Because he has been waiting for his son to bring home a girl for years, and now the girl he never imagined Stiles would actually get is sitting on his sofa.

Lydia smiles again. "Only if that's not too much trouble."

Sheriff Stilinski holds up a hand to stop her, smiling. "Not at all." He turns to his son, the polite smile disappearing. "Don't even dream of picking up a menu until that kitchen's cleared."

Stiles nods, grins, turns back to the film. "Yeah, yeah," he calls back, which earns him a shove from Lydia. As the Sheriff retreats out of the living room, he catches Lydia's head inching a little closer to his son's shoulder. Maybe that's why he pauses silently on the threshold and catches their next words:

"He totally knows." This is Stiles, muttered against the side of her hair.

"What?" She sounds a little panicked and the Sheriff can see Stiles revelling in this.

"He knows you're the one who broke all the eggs."

Lydia lets out a huff of irritation and one leg appears to kick him in the chest. He falls back, groaning with mock pain. "Idiot," she grumbles, before Stiles has tugged her down with him.

The Sheriff leaves then, he doesn't want to be caught watching this particularly. He goes upstairs, changes out of his uniform. Then shuts his bedroom door, pulls out his phone and calls Melissa. She answers after a moment: "Is he okay?" she asks, and her voice is a little breathless, a little worried. He remembers that she'd said to call him today if Stiles had to be picked up, and feels a little guilty for making her panic.

"Yeah, yeah he's fine. Better than that, actually."

"What?"

Sheriff glances surreptitiously towards the bedroom door, checking it's definitely shut. "Lydia's here," he whispers.

A low chuckle erupts from the end of the phone and the Sheriff can imagine the grin on her face. "Is she now?"

"They're watching a film. Melissa, her head was on _his arm_." He hisses these words, needing her to understand the magnitude of this.

She sniggers again. "I hope they used protection," she states dryly.

"Melissa, this is serious! He's been pining for this girl since he saw her. And now she's on the sofa and I'm pretty sure her lipstick is on his lips!" He rubs his forehead, tries to ignore how many wrinkles he can feel under his fingers. "How do I act without totally embarrassing him?"

Melissa laugh is warmer, kinder this time. The McCalls and Stilinskis have been exchanging parenting advice since their sons bashed together all those years ago. Melissa would tell them the right medicine for whichever symptoms Stiles had, Claudia used to tell Melissa discipline tips because lord knows she was far more practised in it. And now the Sheriff needs advice on what to do when the son gets his first girlfriend. "Just…act normal. I mean, at least you already know Lydia a little. So just act like you always have. Chances are this is all pretty confusing for them at the moment; it's hardly going to be simple considering all they're going through. The last thing they need is you acting weird around them."

It's a good point. Trouble is the Sheriff doesn't quite remember how to act normal. It doesn't help that he hasn't been acting normal for weeks. He's had this stupid fake smile on his face every time someone asks how his son is doing, and he's had this stupid look of confidence whenever his son has broken down in front of him. As if he genuinely knows what he's doing when really he has no clue. Claudia would have done it perfectly; would have wafted into the house and sat down on the other sofa and chattered away, brought smiles out on both teenagers.

Instead, they've just got him.

"You'll be fine," Melissa reassures him on the other end of the line. "Listen, I've got to go- Scott's back and, well, he needs me…" she says this a little awkwardly, and the Sheriff can guess why. Stiles isn't the only one who suffered a great trauma. But Melissa is so protective of her son's best friend and his father that she won't quite admit to the Sheriff that Scott is struggling too.

"Of course, thanks Melissa," he replies. A pause, then: "I hope he's okay."

"I'll let you know." She hangs up then and the Sheriff wonders for a moment if he should tell Stiles that his best friend needs him. But he only has to remember the glittering in his son's eyes as he sat next to Lydia, to know that he can't do that to him. Scott will come to Stiles when he needs to, that's how they operate. And right now, Stiles is enjoying a piece of safety from the storm and the Sheriff will not be the one to batter that down.

He goes downstairs, hides away in the dining room with more filing. Tries not eavesdrop on Stiles and Lydia's tidying of the kitchen. He can't help catching snatches though. Lydia noticing the photo of miniature Stiles and Scott and calling him adorable, the argument that erupts over the chemistry of baking, the discussion about how much flour Lydia has managed to get on his sweater (_well if you hadn't dragged me from school without letting me get my own jumper, you wouldn't have that trouble). _It's not exactly the talk of a couple, more the talk of two people on the cusp of crossing a line. A very dangerous line that takes friends and turns them into more. It's enough to make the Sheriff grin the entire way through their tidying and his 'working', until suddenly Stiles pops up at his side, alone.

"What do you want to eat then? And for every portion of deep fried crap, you get one portion of pak choi."

The Sheriff drops his pen down on the desk, leans back in the chair and gives his son a look. A look he usually gives regular jail drop-ins when they say they won't do it again. "Excuse me, we're not doing this."

"Doing what?"

"Coming in here with your food menu and acting as if nothing is happening."

"Nothing's happening!" Stiles whispers this, which doesn't particularly help his case.

The Sheriff, reaches up and wipes at Stiles' bottom lip before his son has a chance to duck out the way. Grinning, he shows Stiles the faded pink now on his own thumb. "Uh huh?"

Stiles grits his teeth, bats his father's hand out of his line of sight. "Shut up. It was one time. I don't even think she meant to do it, it just came out…She's just here because she was upset and needed a distraction," he hisses, "nothing is happening and nothing is going to happen."

The Sheriff's look intensifies. Stiles tries to outlive it but the Sheriff has been perfecting this look against his son since he was born and Stiles is yet to work out a way to defeat it.

"Okay fine!" Stiles explodes a moment later, arms waving in the arm like some sort of demented windmill. "Something might happen. We're planning a Winter wedding- happy?"

The Sheriff shakes his head at his son's addiction to sarcasm. "You just need to be honest with me, Stiles," he chuckles, turning back to his work. "Get two lots of those prawn toast things."

"They're just called prawn toast, Dad- you don't need to add extra words to it for the love of God…" Stiles groans, tapping the folded menu against the palm of his hand in irritation.

"And no pak choi, or I bring out the photo albums."

Stiles mutters something about police corruption before disappearing again. The Sheriff doesn't see or hear from him again until the food arrives, which in itself is pretty surprising. Even when Stiles is locking himself in his bedroom, he makes enough noise to scare an elephant. Stomping around, dropping things, occasionally calling Scott and shouting down the phone at him. But not now. Now all he can hear is the distant blaring of the film.

They eat in the sitting room, although Sheriff Stilinski makes Stiles turn some lights on and switch the ridiculous film off. Stiles complains that they didn't get to see the end but Lydia doesn't look particularly bothered by it. In fact she shoots the Sheriff a brief smile that could almost be a silent thank you. They spread the food across the coffee table, and Stiles takes it upon himself to be a gentleman and load up a plate for Lydia. He's doing it because he knows Lydia doesn't like eating at the moment. Of course the Sheriff doesn't know that for sure but the slightly embarrassed smile she gives him upon receiving the full plate tells a story. The Sheriff is trained to look for these little things, and he doesn't care about using it out of work.

There's an awkward silence at first because neither Stilinski male is particularly known for their social skills. Fortunately, Lydia can breeze through most social situation with her eyes closed and she soon has them settled in the safe conversation of the stupid stuff Sheriff Stilinski has to deal with at work. Somehow this turns into a conversation about the stupid stuff Stiles has done in the past, and suddenly it's dark outside and Lydia is crying with laughter as she's treated to the story of the time Stiles and Scott camped in the garden:

"So it's about ten o'clock and I'm about to go to bed and the boys have been sent to their tent bed about an hour before. I'm just turning off all the lights when I hear this sound, like a cat being murdered. I run outside, convinced that someone is trying to kidnap the boys or they're killing some poor innocent creature-"

"The only two logical explanations, of course," Stiles interjects, wincing as his father leans across and smacks his knee.

"I'm telling the story," the Sheriff chides with a grin, before turning back to Lydia. "So I run outside, all guns blazing. Stiles is standing on the lawn. He's wearing nothing except his boxers…" At this point, Stiles groans and ducks his head into the cushion beside him, but it doesn't stop his father from continuing: "And he's singing the school song at the top of his voice, while Scott watches, literally sobbing with laughter." The Sheriff leans in a little closer to Lydia, ready to deliver the punch line of his story. "I asked them what the hell they were doing and Stiles turns to me, all affronted that I would even have to ask and goes: we're practising for our assembly!"

Lydia lets out a giggle of appreciation, throwing the groaning Stiles a fond look. "I remember that- you and Scott had been so naughty in class that the teacher told you that you had to perform the song all on your own in front of the school. And when you did it, you'd learnt it so well that the principal was forced to give you both gold stars!"

Stiles grins at this, a flush of pride that she can remember those little moments from their childhood, before they really became friends. It's one of those moments where the Sheriff suddenly feels like he's intruding. So he starts to clear up the empty plates, shaking his head with a warm smile as Lydia starts to help as well.

Soon after, as he's cleaning up the dishes in the kitchen, he hears Lydia's sighed proclamation that she should leave. Then follows the awkward procedure of two people saying goodbye, when they're not quite sure how it's meant to go for them anymore. The crease of fabric as she returns his jumper, the flutter of Stiles' nervous laugh. Then the creaking of the front door opening and a soft whisper of a kiss being pressed to his cheek. Then she's gone and Stiles sidles back into the kitchen with a small grin lingering upon his face.

He's forcibly reminded of those hazy days when he first met Claudia. A trainee cop, full of testosterone. Until she came along and tamed him, with that firm decisiveness and utter faith in the goodness of the world that made his heart trip and stumble.

"Well," the Sheriff says, pausing in the washing up to face his son, back leaning against the counter.

Stiles grins, unabashed. "Well," he echoes. He rubs at his eyes, the exhaustion already starting to seep back now that his anchor has floated away again. "I'm going to bed."

"Probably best." The Sheriff is still grinning, even when Stiles lobs a tea towel in his direction. He catches it deftly, hangs it up by the oven. Then he's serious. "Should I be worried about the leaving school thing?"

Stiles shakes his head, firmly. "No. I mean, I got all the way to 2 o' clock. That's pretty good. And…" he pauses, the red returning to his cheeks, "Lydia is making me go to the guidance counsellor, I think that should help."

"I've been trying to make you go to the guidance counsellor for weeks…"

Stiles shrugs. "You don't bribe me with kisses."

"I could try…." Stiles groans, shakes his head firmly at the idea. Falls silent but doesn't move yet, knowing his father isn't quite finished. He's right, the Sheriff continues a moment later: "So, is there anything there?" he asks, echoing a question from years before when Lydia leaves the bruised Stiles to go save Jackson.

This time, though, Stiles doesn't look like a kicked puppy. He shrugs, grins proudly. "Maybe." But then he's serious. "We're taking it slow. What with Allison and Aiden, we don't want to rush into anything. But I think there's something."

"Me too."

Stiles grins at his father's agreement, then pats him lightly on the shoulder. "I'm going to try and sleep. See you in the morning." It's unspoken, the awareness that at some point in the night Stiles will probably see his father again. They don't want it to become part of their routine.

Sheriff Stilinski nods, rubs his son's back in an encouraging way before turning back to the washing up. He hears Stiles making his way upstairs and allows a feeling of hope to wash over him. His son is going to be okay, he knows it. He wonders if he should be sad that he's not enough on his own, that Stiles' recovery rests also in the hands of Lydia Martin. But he decides that no, he shouldn't. Stiles has always needed his friends as well as his family. And recently, Stiles has always needed Lydia. To find him, to bring him back, to calm him down.

It's about ten minutes later before he's finished cleaning up the dinner things. He heads up the stairs, already relishing the prospect of his bed. But then he hears voices coming from Stiles' room and he pauses, wondering if he should just leave it.

He can't. Leaving his son to get on with it is what got them into this mess in the first place (not really but fatherly guilt is just part of the job description). Walking the short distance past his own room and to the threshold of Stiles', he raises a fist and gently knocks against the door. Stiles opens it after a moment, wide enough for the Sheriff to see into his room and to see the other occupant. It's Scott, sitting on the bed with red eyes and clenched fists. The windows open, scattering a breeze across the room and explaining how he managed to get in without the Sheriff noticing.

Stiles smiles weakly at his father. "It's okay," he says, as Scott stares determinedly at his feet. "We're just having a catch up. It's fine, Dad."

Looking at Scott, though, the Sheriff has to disagree. It's anything but.


	6. Chapter 6

It takes almost five minutes for Stiles to get his father to leave. He doesn't blame him; he can see why he's worried. Scott looks like he's on the brink of a breakdown and his father knows how tentative Stiles' current calm is, knows how easily he could be pushed over the edge. But Stiles manages to placate him with promises that he'll speak to him afterwards, that he won't let Scott's despair seep into his own mind again.

His father leaves, and the door hasn't even shut properly before Stiles is feeling a dark panic crawling up his spine. Sharp claws digging into his skin, whispering that he is incapable of helping anybody, that he is a mess and his best friend deserves so much better. _Stab him in the stomach again, Stiles- let's see how much your friend bleeds this time. _ The nogitsune's barbed words still sit in Stiles' memories, smug and immoveable.

He turns to face Scott again, then moves to sit beside him. Scott is wearing his pyjama bottoms and his lacrosse jumper, his feet bare and pink from the cold. His hands sit clenched beside his legs, and his eyes stare ahead, fixed determinedly on the opposite wall. Stiles can't remember seeing his friend this upset before, because Scott is always so measured, so collected. Stiles remembers that when Scott's dad finally left, he politely asked Stiles not to talk about it and then challenged him to a Pokemon trading card duel. Maybe when Allison died, Scott lost it properly but Stiles was not there to see that, too lost in the battle between a dark-edged fox.

"So…what's going on, bud?" Stiles manages to ask after a moment of awkward silence in which his brain almost creaks with the effort of working out the best thing to say.

Scott picks at the corner of his left eye, which Stiles knows to be a sign that his best friend is on the edge of crying. "I found something of hers; in my cupboard…Don't even know how I missed it. It was just lying underneath one of my jackets…one of her hair bands…and her hair was stuck in it. And I just…." He stops, because he knows he's about to cry and he really doesn't want to. He looks to Stiles, desperate for his best friend to do that thing he always does and make it all better. To bring out his box of magic tricks and wave the despair away.

But Stiles isn't that person again yet. He's still recharging, still sewing himself back together. All he can do for a few moments is nod, rub the palms of his hands together over and over. Trying to think of the right thing to say but all he can ask is: "How could a hairband get in the cupboard?"

"I don't know…I just wish she was still here…"

"Maybe she did her hair in the cupboard one time?"

"Stiles…"

"No, why would she ever do that…that would just be weird…"

"Stiles."

"Did she ever need to hide in your cupboard?"

"Stiles!" Scott jumps up, moving away from the bed with clear exasperation at Stiles' obsessive tendencies. Hands come up to run through his hair as he turns back to face his friend. "It doesn't matter about the stupid hairband alright? Can we focus on the real issue here? That my...That Allison is…" he trails off and Stiles hops up as well, coming to place a hand on Scott's shoulder that guides him back to the edge of his bed.

"Sorry, I know," Stiles replies softly, feeling the fluttering of guilt at his own inability to focus. Of course it's not about the hairband, how could he be so stupid? _Stupid stupid Stiles, your best friend is gonna hate you soon, and it will be all your stupid fault. _ Sits down, counts his fingers one by one (and at least here he doesn't have to hide it because Scott has been used to this habit for weeks now). "It's ten buckets of shit, that's for sure…" he murmurs, and then glances across as Scott lets out a short sniff of agreement.

"Maybe even twenty," he mutters back, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I just…Stiles, we were meant to be together, you know? Forever. The plan was that we had this stupid break and then we got back together and that was it forever…But she died." He says these final words like he's realising it for the first time and Stiles has a sneaking suspicion that this is Scott's life at the moment; numbness, then a sudden lightning bolt of realisation that she's gone. Stiles wraps an arm around his friend's shoulder, squeezes it tight.

"I know," he says quietly, letting the words slip out slowly so he can think of what to say next. What a mess they are. Two kids trying to play at being grown up, at being capable. And failing dismally. "It's gotta get better though, right? It has to stop hurting eventually. At least a little bit."

Scott frowns, shakes his head. "I'm not sure I want it to. I don't want to move on from her."

Stiles sighs, and for a moment it's like he's doing the post-break up talk all over again. Almost feels that impatience he had then, when Scott refused to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Except this time he can't say that there's still an option of them getting back together. This time it's pretty permanent. "Listen, Scott. I know you want to sit and wallow in this forever and hey, I'm a great advocator of that. It's all I've been doing these last months. But if Allison saw us doing that, she'd kick us so hard up the backsides that we wouldn't be able to sit for weeks."

Scott winces at the imagery. "Easier said than done," he mumbles.

Stiles mulls over the words, then nods. "You're right." And then he stands up. Scott's stomach immediately churns because Stiles has that look on his face again. The look that always ends with trouble and pain (usually Scott's pain). "We'll have to do it then. Right now. Before it gets any worse."

Scott doesn't want to ask the question that Stiles is waiting for him to ask. He tries to avoid looking at the expectant expression on Stiles' face because it reminds him of a puppy dog waiting for his food. But he catches a glimpse and dammit he can't leave his best friend waiting any longer. "How?" he groans.

"Wanna do something fun?"

Scott rolls his eyes, despite everything. He knows what Stiles is doing. Not long after all the mess with the Durach came to an end, Lydia and Allison forced Scott, Stiles and Isaac to attend their annual screening of Mean Girls. Stiles had been the most vocal complainer beforehand but then become the most likely to start quoting the damn film at inappropriate times.

"I'm not saying it, Stiles," Scott replies stubbornly. "I don't think now is the best time."

Stiles doesn't appear to be listening to his complaints. He grabs a jumper from his wardrobe and then lobs a pair of shoes in Scott's general direction, before turning back to deliver the rest of the line: "Wanna go to Taco Bell?"

"There isn't a Taco Bell in Beacon Hills, Stiles. Remember when you made us drive all the way down the interstate until we found one?"

Stiles uses one of the shoes to thwack Scott none-too-lightly on the knee. "That's not the line. Say it or I won't help you."

"Except you will."

"Say it, Scott for the love of God!"

Scott groans, flopping back on the bed (the despair mainly comes from the fact that this is actually helping and his smug best friend is very much aware of that). He crumbles a second later: "I can't go to Taco Bell, I'm on an all-carb diet- gosh Stiles you're so stupid." He reels the words off in perfect monotone, but it still gets a whoop from Stiles.

"The genius of that script, I just…" He stops himself on the edge of a ramble, clears his throat and tugs his best friend back upright. "Come on. Get those shoes on. We're going to distract you."

Scott obliges, only because he's a fan of an easy life. Stiles has that determined glint in his eye and Scott has known his friend long enough to know that you don't mess with that look. He stuffs his feet into Stiles' slightly too small shoes, and follows his friend over to the window. "My dad will freak out if he sees us going out," Stiles explains as he ducks out into the night.

Scott follows. "More so than if he comes up and finds you missing?"

"He won't come up." Stiles likes to think he says this with a lot of confidence but he has a sneaking suspicion that Scott isn't particularly convinced. Still, his friend follows him across the roof and down the drainpipe and then into Stiles' jeep. Sits obediently in the passenger seat without a word as Stiles drives them across town and parks outside the police station, and only then does Scott turn to his friend with hesitation in his eyes.

"What are we doing here?" he groans.

Stiles pulls his cloned version of his father's key card from the glove box before popping open the door and stepping out of the jeep. "What do you mean? This is where we always come."

It's true. The police station has been a sanctuary for the pair as much as it's been a prison for others. Ever since they were little and their parents would take turns looking after them at their respective works. Scott and Stiles were so self-contained that it was easy to leave them to get on with it at either the hospital or the police station, but it didn't take long for the boys to develop a preference. The hospital was too busy, too full of people glaring at them for being in the wrong place. But at the police station, the team were small enough to quickly get to know the boys, and the little town never generated enough crime for the place to feel quite as hectic as the hospital. They would sit behind the desk on the floor and do their homework, then play cops and robbers in the empty cells. Drink the free hot chocolate (and then the free coffee as they got older) and talk to the crazy old Office Jenkins who would tell them war stories of his wildest arrests. Even after the blood shed that happened there with Jackson and Matt, the boys couldn't help gravitate back there. Couldn't help but sit among the shelves of the evidence room and talk through everything, until the cleaner would kick them out.

Stiles unlocks and opens the service door, tugs Scott through the corridors and into his father's office. The station is quiet, deserted. The night shift officers are clearly out on a job, not that they would particularly care about the boys sneaking in. It was hardly the first time. Or the sixth time for that matter. Stiles pulls a torch from his father's drawer and sets it up on the floor, shining out at the opposite wall to the door. Scott has already sat down on the floor, back against the desk with enough space beside him for Stiles. His friend fills it a moment later, once he's found his father's stash of chocolate and placed it down beside Scott.

"Now what?" Scott asks, glancing to his friend. "We've just moved the conversation somewhere else."

"Give me time, young Skywalker," Stiles chuckles, and decides he better not look to Scott because he's not sure he can bear the clueless expression he's sure his friend will be wearing now.

Scott sighs after a minute passes with nothing inspired coming from his friend. He looks over and Stiles' eyebrows are crumpled in immense concentration. He decides to take matters into his own hands and provide the distraction himself. "So…what happened with Lydia? Your text earlier made it sound promising."

Stiles shrugs but there's a wonky grin hiding on his face that suggests he really wants to talk about it. "It's nothing really…hey, this isn't about me anyway. We're here for you."

Scott shakes his head. "I'd rather just think about something else."

Stiles examines him for a moment, eyes taking in every inch of his friend's drawn and worn face. "You really think that's the best idea?" he asks finally and Scott nods almost immediately. Stiles sighs, because really he doesn't agree. He knows how good distractions can feel but he also knows how fleeting they are. But he decides to oblige. "She kissed me. "

Scott stares at him. Even though he was expecting something along these lines, it pretty shocking to hear his friend state such a thing as if it's the most natural thing in the world. "She…kissed you. Were you having a panic attack again?" He remembers the flushed excitement of his friend's explanation of the last time Lydia kissed him. After their parents were safe from the threat of sacrifices and the boys had found a moment to stop, he had blurted it out with eyes shining and nose wrinkling like it always did when he was excited.

"Nope. No panic attack." Stiles snaps off a square of chocolate, turns it over and over in his fingers until it starts to melt and he's forced to quickly pop it into his mouth. "We were just talking, she was teasing me about something and I told her she would never stop being beautiful, or something like that…and she kissed me."

Scott is silent. In truth, he feels a little sick. The churning feeling of not quite knowing how he should be feeling because he's so happy but he's also so scared. If Stiles has Lydia, the empty space Allison has left behind will become a yawning chasm and Scott isn't sure he can deal with that. But then it's Lydia, the girl that Stiles has been in love with for so many years. The girl that Stiles has carefully inked onto his heart ever since fourth grade, when she walked over their sandcastles. He has to be happy for her, doesn't he? "That's amazing," he says, the words hollow and heavy on his tongue.

Stiles snorts in response, shooting his friend a look that makes it clear that he can tell how Scott is feeling. And he probably can tell, because Stiles and Scott's minds have been interwoven and braided together. Twins separated at birth, that's what Claudia and Melissa used to say.

"No, really. I'm so happy for you, dude."

"It's nothing to be happy for yet. It was just a kiss. Then she came back to mine and we watched a film and had Chinese with my Dad but nothing else happened. We just spent time together for once, you know? Without having to deal with some crisis or with some damn dead body."

Scott nods his understanding, then bumps his shoulder against Stiles. "Come on, that is pretty cool. I mean, I remember when Lydia didn't even acknowledge your existence- now she's over for Chinese? She definitely likes you, Stiles."

Stiles shrugs, handing Scott a piece of chocolate which he eats automatically and then immediately regrets (food is not his biggest fan right now). "What about you and Kira?"

Scott shakes his head. "I told her I needed some time to…you know…think. And she was fine about it but now I'm just stuck, not knowing how to ever be ready to be in a relationship with someone without feeling incredibly guilty."

Stiles nods his understanding. "Remember when my mom died? I refused to do anything fun for months. I just wanted to wallow in it all forever."

"Yeah, then I got tickets for the new Batman film and you decided you had to make an allowance."

"It was Batman, had to be done." Stiles taps the key card against the palm of his hand in an absent-minded manner (much like many of his movements). "I felt better after that."

"So what you're saying is if I starting seeing Kira, I'll feel better?"

"Can't see how it wouldn't." Stiles says this with a certain tweak of sarcasm, because he's very much aware of the can of worms that could open. "Then again, maybe you should just see another Batman film. I can't imagine Kira offering much more than three hours of a brooding Christian Bale and sarcastic Michael Caine will."

Scott has to laugh at that, shoving his friend lightly so that Stiles falls down against the torch and sends their only light source skittering across the floor. It takes Stiles a moment to retrieve it because he's laughing so hard. It's relief, mainly. Relief at hearing his friend laugh without the tell-tale jitter that means he's forcing it out. Kicking Scott's nearest leg, Stiles pulls himself back into an upright position. "You're a cruel man, you know that."

"So you keep telling me." Scott chuckles for a moment, allowing the natural laugh to stay as long as it likes because it feels so nice to have it there. Once it's gone, the boys are silent again. Comfortable.

"It will be fine, you know. I know you won't believe it but it does get better. I mean, I got through my mum dying. And you're much better at being an adjusted person, let's be real."

Scott nods. And again Stiles can see that a tear is fighting to escape from the corner of one eye. So Stiles does the most natural thing and pulls his friend into a tight hug. Truth be told, the boys don't hug as much as one might expect from such close friends. They reserve it for the right moments, so that they're still powerful enough to chase away the shadows. Scott wraps his arms around Stiles and Stiles rubs at his best friend's back. And Stiles isn't ashamed to admit that he feels the tears well up in his own eyes. He's missed Scott, so much. He still does miss him because this, right here, isn't them. This isn't mucking around with each other's phones, this isn't watching scary films and this isn't lazy days playing lacrosse in the park. It's all too serious and Stiles just misses the days when their greatest worries were whether they'd get separated in their next class.

Maybe that's why they hug for longer than usual. Scott presses his chin against Stiles' shoulder and Stiles can feel him shaking. "It's not _fair_," Scott finally whispers. "Why did it have to be her? And why did you have to be possessed? My best friend! And why did I have to be bitten in the first freakin' place?!" He pulls back, his face flushed with all the emotion he's trying to keep bottled up inside.

Stiles wants to reel off his usual script now, the one that he's tried and tested so many times now. But he can't this time, because all he can think is that if he hadn't dragged Scott into the forest that night he wouldn't have become a werewolf and who knows how different things would have been then. The panicky feeling of guilt that Stiles is becoming so accustomed to returns, fluttering around his chest like some twisted little butterfly. He pulls back from Scott so that he can count his fingers, tugging at each knuckle with great care. Only then can he get the words out: "Literally, Scott there is nothing I can say to that."

His words are as dry as the drought-ridden grass outside. Scott snorts, rubbing roughly at his raw eyes. "You're right," he mutters. He sighs, stands up and stretches. "I should get back home. Thanks, Stiles."

The thanks is hollow and Stiles knows it's because he hasn't really helped at all. Held the floodgates closed for a while maybe but that probably just meant it would be much worse later. And all of a sudden Stiles just feels an immense frustration that he's failing at the one thing he's always been able to do. "Wait, Scott," he says, jumping up as well. "Don't go yet. You can't, you're not proper yet."

Scott laughs. "What?"

Stiles doesn't answer, too busy rooting under the sofa. He surfaces a moment later, holding a pack of cards. "Sit, this will do the trick."

"Cards? We haven't played cards in ages."

"I know, ever since I won your skateboard."

"Still convinced you cheated." Scott mutters this in a sulky little voice, perfectly aware and comfortable with how petulant he sounds.

"Still convinced you don't even know how to play the damn game now sit down you dumbass." Stiles gestures with the cards, settling back down on the floor. "Stakes?"

Scott sits down opposite, moving the torch so it shines onto their makeshift card table. "If I win, you ask her out to dinner."

Stiles stares at his best friend as he shuffles the pack clumsily in his hand. "You're a dick."

Scott grins, unabashed. "What about you?" he asks.

Stiles considers it as he deals out the cards with practised speed. "If I win, we do Disney."

Scott groans, flopping his head back until it hits the desk. "Seriously? When are you going to give that up?"

"I swear, Scott- I am not reaching adulthood without at least one trip to that place, it's just not something I can live with." Stiles looks outraged at his friend's complete lack of sympathy for his cause and it's an expression that Scott is yet to be able to withstand without laughing.

"Alright, fine. If you win we go to the stupid place." Scott takes the half of the pack which he has been dealt with, eyes up Stiles' half with open suspicion as his friend scoops them up. Stiles hasn't lost against Scott the last four times they've played, but they haven't actually played properly since Scott has been bitten. Something Scott is now banking on.

"No werewolf skills, I'll be able to tell," Stiles warns before slamming the first card down onto the floor.

"Alright, promise." Scott says, pausing for effect before slamming his own first card on top. The boys lean in close, examining the two cards for a moment. Then Stiles sniffs his satisfaction and smacks a card on top. This continues for a moment, with both boys laying cards on top of each other's. Until suddenly, Stiles lays a five on top of Scott's five and chaos ensues. Stiles bellows: "SNAP!" but obviously the boys cannot simply play Snap the regular way. In their version, to win the cards you must hold onto the cards for twenty seconds without the other person stealing them back. So when Stiles calls snap, he immediately snatches the cards up and goes for the classic shove them down the trousers trick. But Scott knows his best friend's tactics off by heart and has dived across the gap between them before Stiles can get anywhere near the edge of his trousers.

A brief wrestle then ensues, in which Scott tries to extract the cards from Stiles' hands without using his wolf powers. But Stiles knows that if he jabs his knee in Scott's stomach, his best friend will be rendered useless because he has a ticklish spot there (honestly, if the two boys decided to get married the next day, there really wouldn't be much difference).

This sort of thing continues for two hours before Scott finally wins the game. The whole pack held victoriously over his head so that the rising sun graces the worn edges of the cards and a genuine grin on his face because this is normal and because his best friend is going to have to go on a date with Lydia Martin now. Stiles flops back onto the floor, exhausted from the whole thing but still grinning. "You're a dick," he calls up and Scott grins as if this is a grand medal of honour.

But then there's the tell-tale click of shoes on the shiny floor of the station and the creak of the office door. Both boys turn, eyes wide like the proverbial deer in the headlights. But it's just Stiles' father. He looks confused, staring at the two slightly bedraggled boys before him (Snap can get pretty violent sometimes). Then he shakes his head, rubbing his forehead. "I knew it…Do you know how worried I've been? You both damn disappeared! Melissa had no idea, neither did your father. We thought something had happened!"

The boys exchange glances, mumble apologies with suitable amounts of sorrow in their voices (really they're not that bothered. They have been sneaking out at night for years and this is just one more step towards normal, finally dragging themselves in the right direction). Once the Sheriff has shouted at them a bit more and then finally released them into the early morning (6:35am, the clock on the reception desk says), the boys find themselves standing on the sidewalk with the sun in their eyes and a light feeling in their hearts.

Scott turns to Stiles, and for a moment returns to the serious, concerned friend. "School?" he asks, because he doesn't know how bad it was for Stiles yesterday, or if he just left because Lydia Martin wanted to.

Stiles sucks at his teeth, keys jangling in his hand now as he chucks them up, catches them, chucks them up again. "Yeah, alright. You?" he asks. It's a loaded question, not really to do with his dedication to school. More asking for Scott to rate his friend's attempt to make him feel better; how satisfied were you with the service today, Mr McCall?

Scott nods after a moment of consideration. Then he grins, bumps shoulders with Stiles. "Got nothing better to do."

They start walking towards Stiles' jeep, hands sliding into their respective pockets in neat unison. As they reach the car door, Scott allows a smirk to slither onto his face. "So…where you going to take her?"

Stiles opens his side of the car, scowls. "Screw you," he replies and jumps in.

The engine sputters into life a moment later and from his office, the Sheriff looks out the window just in time to see the blue jeep chugging its way down the road. And he grins, turns back to the phone call he's currently engaged in. "Yeah, Melissa," he says. "They're just fine."


End file.
